Chapter V: Front Matter (5)

The moral tone of the pictures now exhibited has been greatly benefited by the movement started in New York by those public-spirited citizens, headed by the late Mr. Charles Sprague-Smith, known as the National Board of Censorship, which wisely serves without compensation. The film-makers voluntarily submit their work, and are more than glad to have it reviewed, and it is said on good authority that no manufacturer has ever refused to destroy a film which did not receive the indorsement of the board. In a recent letter to “The Outlook,” Mr. Darrell Hibbard, director of boys’ work, Y. M. C. A., Indianapolis, discusses this phase of the subject. He writes: “Why is it that from juvenile, divorce, and criminal courts we hear constant blame for wayward deeds laid on the ‘five-cent shows’? The one answer is the word ‘Greed.’” He adds that when a film has passed the National Board of Censors, copies of it go to distributing agencies, in whose hands “it can be made over uncensored, strips can be inserted, or any mutilation made that fancy or trade may dictate.... A so-called class of ‘pirated’ films are the extreme of irresponsibility.... They are either manufactured locally or smuggled in from Europe, and thus miss the National Board of Censors.... The only way that the people, and especially the children, can be safeguarded from the influence of evil pictures is by careful regulation of the places of exhibition.... The nation-wide supervision of public exhibitions should be under the Department of Education or Child Welfare at Washington.”

A SCENE FROM “THE BLACK ARROW”

This picture, showing the “Battle of Shorebytown,” was posed near New York City.]

There are now many auxiliary boards. Some are under the city governments, and are compulsory, as in Chicago. Last year this board passed on more than 3000 reels of pictures, comprising 2,604,000 feet of films. They found it necessary to reject less than three per cent. If, however, on investigation Mr. Hibbard’s fears are found to be justified, the recently organized Children’s Bureau of the Department of Commerce and Labor will here obtain an early chance to justify its existence, as probably ninety-five per cent. of the films, as articles of interstate commerce, can now be subjected to its jurisdiction. Such supervision should also be welcomed by film-makers as an important step in furthering an advancement in the moral tone of films, long since on the upward grade, and thus to open up an even wider field of usefulness than they now exert.

THE FILMS

The smaller illustrations show the exact size of the pictures as they appear on the film. They are an inch wide and three quarters of an inch deep. A reel is usually a thousand feet long, and contains sixteen thousand pictures. On a screen twelve feet square, which is smaller than the usual size, there is surface enough to show twenty-seven thousand of the pictures side by side if they are reproduced without enlargement. Yet if every enlarged picture were shown on a separate twelve-foot screen, a single reel would require a stretch of canvas thirty-six miles long. Likewise a screen twenty feet square would accommodate over seventy-six thousand of the little pictures, and the stretch of canvas required for the enlarged pictures would be sixty miles long. After witnessing a performance, few realize that they have seen any such stretch of pictures as the figures show.

SERIES OF RADIOGRAPHS SHOWING THE MOTIONS OF A STOMACH SUFFERING FROM GASTRIC PERISTALSIS]

The life of a film is usually from three to six months, though varying, of course, with the treatment in handling. “The Scientific American” gives credit for superiority to films of French make, and attributes their excellence to the many tests to which they are subjected to secure exact dimensions, adequate strength, and other properties.

It is almost as vain to speak of the cost of producing a film as it is to speak of the cost of producing a painting. We know the cost of the canvas of the latter, and we also know the cost of the bare film is three cents per foot; but the cost of what is on the film may be represented only by the cost of developing and the labor of the machine-operator, as, for example, in such pictures as “An Inaugural Parade,” or the famous pictures showing the “Coronation of George V.” Sometimes, however, the cost runs as high as fifty thousand dollars, as did the film known as “The Landing of Columbus.” These films require many people, necessitate the taking of long journeys to provide an appropriate setting, and need from two to three years to finish them. Before the film known as “The Crusaders” was ready for the public, six hundred players and nearly three hundred horses had appeared in front of the lens. The film of “The Passion Play,” now in preparation, will cost, it is said, a hundred thousand dollars.

Mr. Paul Rainey has stated that his wonderful animal pictures, which showed his happenings from the unloading of his expedition from an Atlantic steamer on the coast of Africa, through the various hunts, and up to his departure, likewise cost fifty thousand dollars. Some of these wonderful films demonstrated how practical was his much-laughed-at theory that the Mississippi hounds used for hunting bear could successfully hunt the destructive African lion and the chetah. These pictures, which were taken with the idea of permitting Mr. Rainey’s friends at home to journey with him in spirit in his travels, were first shown publicly last winter at the National Geographic Society in Washington to illustrate a lecture by Mr. Rainey. Those who then enjoyed them can feel only satisfaction to know that they have now been placed on public exhibition, to show to the people at large what Professor Henry Fairfield Osborn, President of the American Museum of Natural History, has declared to be “the greatest contribution to natural history of the last decade.” The writer recently saw these pictures, and while the films are naturally not as perfect as when first shown in Washington, all the essentials are faithfully reproduced.

It is only recently that the streaky, flickering, eye-straining series of pictures first brought out have been supplanted by pictures so improved and so steady and continuous that the setting of a room or a landscape made up of hundreds of pictures appears as a single photograph. This is admirably illustrated by a portion of Mr. Rainey’s pictures, which show, through the peculiarly clear African atmosphere, a range of mountains ninety miles away. Again, his picture of the drinking-place, where, owing to a long drought, some of the animals had come eighty miles to scratch in the sand for water, shows the stillness of an immense landscape broken only by the swaying of the nests of half a hundred weaver-birds in a single tree, and by the scamper of monkeys, baboons, and other small animals two hundred and fifty yards from the camera. The same still background is shown as these little animals cautiously approach, drink, and are driven away by those of larger size, who in turn give way to companies of zebras, giraffes, rhinos, and elephants.

In a recent lecture given to benefit a fund to establish an animal hospital in New York, Dr. Joseph K. Dixon is credited with having shown a rare set of films which took his audience on a most interesting trip through the Yellowstone Park, and showed them an animal hospital which nature had provided in a secluded spot of aspen-trees, where injured creatures went for rest and convalescence. Many vivid pictures showed lame deer, wounded elk, and bears having their cuts and bruises healed by their own applications of oil taken from the trees.

SERIES OF RADIOGRAPHS SHOWING MOTIONS OF THE STOMACH DURING DIGESTION]

SCIENTIFIC AND EDUCATIONAL,--MICROCINEMATOGRAPH FILMS AND ROENTGENCINEMATOGRAPHY

Though the work of the cinematograph is only in its infancy, the range of its possibilities seems almost boundless. When the target-practice pictures mentioned above were taken, it was said that some of the pictures showed a twelve-inch shell actually in flight. The writer saw these pictures, and while he did not see this point illustrated, possibly due to the breaking and imperfect repairing of the film, the statement can be credited, as it is feasible to see this with the naked eye if the observer is well in the line of flight. Another remarkable instance which illustrates the capabilities and speed of the lens has been cited in the case of a picture which shows a rifle-bullet on the inside of a soap-bubble, from which it was learned that the bubble does not break until the bullet leaves the opposite side from which it entered.

SCENE FROM “WASHINGTON CROSSING THE DELAWARE”]

The moving-picture is more and more being used for educational and scientific purposes. It has been used for recruiting, and pictures were taken of the convention at Chicago for use in the national campaign. Pictures showing the methods of teaching in New York schools have been shown in many parts of the country. Dr. William M. Davidson, superintendent of public schools in the District of Columbia, is strongly advocating the passage of a bill now pending before Congress to use the schools as social centers for exhibiting educational moving-pictures. Likewise Superintendent Maxwell is urging their use in the New York public schools. Mr. Edison has very recently been quoted as saying: “I intend to do away with books in the school; that is, I mean to try to do away with school-books. When we get the moving-pictures in the school, the child will be so interested that he will hurry to get there before the bell rings, because it’s the natural way to teach, through the eye. I have half a dozen fellows writing scenari now on A and B.” An eight-year course is being planned which it is expected will be started in Orange, New Jersey, in about a year.

By the use of the moving-picture, the St. Louis Medical Society has recently shown the method of inoculating animals with disease-germs and the effect of the germs on the blood. Circulation of the blood and action of numerous species of bacilli were also illustrated. In a micro-cinematograph film showing the circulation of the blood in a living body, prepared by M. Camandon, a French scientist, and exhibited by MM. Pathe Frères, the London “Nature” states that the white corpuscles of the blood are shown gradually altering their shape and position and fulfilling one of their best-known functions in acting as scavengers and absorbing such abnormal substances as microbes, disease-cells, and granules of inert matter. “By reproducing at a slower pace the changes,” this journal continues, “the cinematograph can assist us to attain a clearer perception of the nature of the alteration as it takes place.... No amount of imagination can supply the clearness and comprehension which actual seeing can give. The cinematograph might well become a most sufficient aid to the teaching of very many biological and especially medical subjects.”

SCENE FROM “THE LAND BEYOND THE SUNSET”

This picture shows the fairies guiding a little newsboy to the land of his dreams.]

Utilizing the moving-picture with the microscope has given the layman an insight into a world almost beyond comprehension, and yet this field particularly is only in its infancy. At the recent World’s Hygienic Congress in Washington, the large attendance at the lecture of Dr. Fullerborn of Hamburg, illustrated with microscopic moving-pictures, demonstrated the keen public interest in this subject. The pictures showed the skin of a guinea-pig being shaved, how it was inoculated with the hook-worm, the surgeon cutting out a piece of the skin and preparing his microscope. The remainder of the film showed just how the rapid multiplication of the much-talked-of hook-worm is revealed through the microscope.

The peculiar opaqueness necessary for the X-ray is obtained by administering to a patient, who is in a fasting condition, two ounces of bismuth subcarbonate mixed with two glasses of buttermilk. Many radiographs are then made in rapid succession. These are reduced to cinematographic size and projected upon a screen, giving a very graphic representation of the motions of the stomach during digestion. The films used in this paper were made by Dr. Lewis Gregory Cole, Radiologist to Cornell University Medical College, and were shown at a recent meeting of the American Medical Association, and published in the journal of that society and in the Archives of Roentgen Ray. This procedure is termed “Roentgencinematography” by Kaestle, Rieder, and Rosenthal, to whom Dr. Cole gives much credit for previous work along the same line. In the articles referred to above Dr. Cole advises this method of examination for determining the presence of cancers and ulcers of the stomach.

SCENE FROM “THE STARS AND THE STRIPES”

This picture shows the surrender of the British captain to John Paul Jones in the famous fight between the _Bonhomme Richard_ and the _Serapis_. The scene was arranged in the Edison Studio, the American ship being stationary and the other arranged to run on rollers.]

“Photographing time” has a spectacular sound, yet patents were recently issued to the writer which virtually accomplished this. Between the shutter and the film of the moving-picture machine are introduced the marked edges of revolving transparent dials, actuated by clock-movement. The figures in the three dials denote the hour, minute, second, and smaller divisions, and are arranged to come to a prescribed position as the shutter opens. By this means the exact time at which any motion is photographed is imprinted on the different pictures of the film independent of the varying speed of the hand-crank. Such records promise to be most useful in the “scientific management” field and medical pictures, from which comparative time studies can be made from a number of films at the same time or from a single film by reproducing it on the screen in the usual manner.

Over twenty years ago, Mr. Edison stated in his patent specification in referring to his ability to take forty-six photographs per second, “I have also been able to hold the tape at rest for nine tenths of the time.” It was probably not intended to convey the impression that he could take anything approaching ten times the number of pictures, as it is of course necessary to provide for rest periods; but it is significant that very recently a machine has been perfected for portraying such rapid motion as projectiles in flight, etc., which takes the almost inconceivable number of two hundred and fifty pictures per second. Indeed, experiments are in progress which promise even four hundred per second.

Films are also being utilized to show the news of the day. A member of ~The Century~ staff was in Rome last year when the king was fired upon. Two days later, in Perugia, he saw a moving-picture of the king appearing on the balcony of the palace before an enormous crowd assembled to congratulate him on his escape. More recently a London theater which shows the news of the day in motion-pictures is regularly opened and important events are shown on the screen two hours after their occurrence, a promptness approaching that of the press “extra.”

TRICK FILMS

The old saying is that figures do not lie; but a modern one is that they can be made to. Just so the trick film places before one’s very eyes what to one’s inner consciousness is impossible. Two favorite devices of the trickster are brought into play in a recent film which shows a cleverly produced romance woven about such an absurdity as the painting of a landscape by the switching of a cow’s tail. The film tells the story of a ne’er-do-well, in love, pretending to study art. The father frowns on the match, but promises his favor if the son will produce an example of his skill. In desperation the brush and palette are taken to a field, and while the lovers are despairing, a friendly cow approaches the easel. The switching begins at once, and a change in the canvas is seen with every movement until a creditable painting appears. What has appeared astonishing would have attracted less attention had the audience seen that the pictures showing the restless cow were taken at intervals, between which, while the camera was stopped, a real artist worked on the picture, and stepped to one side when the camera was put into action.

The work of the trickster is shown to advantage in reversing a film depicting a building operation. When run backward, a brand-new structure is seen to be pulled to pieces, and its various members hauled away in wagons running backward.

One operator, who had shown boys diving from a high spring-board, has related how, by reversing the film, he let his audience see the boys come out of the water feet foremost, rise through the air the same way, and by a graceful turn land on their feet on the spring-board. Another has told how, by the same reverse motion, firemen, who a moment before had rescued occupants from a burning building, were seen to carry their victims back into the flames. We may perhaps look for some of these enterprising tricksters to illustrate the possibility of that expression of impossibility, “the unscrambling of eggs,” or for one of them, with rare presence of mind, to catch on his lens an accident shattering a number of valuable cut-glass pieces, and then to convert a loss into profit by exhibiting the film reversed, and showing with wonderful effectiveness a mass of broken glass ascend through space and form itself on the table into the perfect originals.

THE PHOTO-PLAY

The moving-picture has developed an important branch in the field of literature. Several periodicals are devoted entirely to the subject, and in many of the standard magazines can be found regular advertisements for short “photo-plays.” The scenario-writers engaged in the work do not seem to be able to keep up with the increasing demand. Standard plays are pressed into service, and the leading managers and actors of the world are found among those producing the 5000 plays which moving-picture audiences require every year.

The drama on the white sheet dates back to the autumn of 1894, when Alexander Black of New York brought out the first “picture-play” before a distinguished literary audience. This first picture-play, called “Miss Jerry,” like later white-sheet plays by the same author and artist, was accompanied by a spoken monologue giving all the speeches and covering all the transitions of the action. The pictures, the making of which was begun before the appearance of the motion-picture device, were produced in series, indoors and out, from a living cast, as in the present plays, and were put on the screen with registered backgrounds by the aid of a double stereopticon at the rate of from three to five per minute, thus presenting stages of action--a prophecy of the continuous action perfected in the plays of to-day.

When Mr. Black gave “Miss Jerry” for the first time in Boston, Edward Everett Hale, greeting the author after the performance, exclaimed, “Black, it’s so _inevitable_ that I’m chagrined to think that I didn’t invent it myself.” It seemed inevitable, also, that the motion-picture machine would take up the play idea; yet for a considerable time motion exploitation was confined to short, episodic films. Indeed, the early motion films were far less smooth in effect than the modern product, and at the beginning a prolonged run appeared like a hazardous undertaking for the eyes. Within the present season certain films have been run in almost unbroken continuity (as in Bernhardt’s “Queen Elizabeth”) for an hour and a half, which is to say that the motion-pictures are now giving the full dramatic progression suggested by the original lantern-play as seen by Dr. Hale.

Doubtless the value of the moving-picture drama will be greatly enhanced if speaking and singing parts in moving-picture performances, with the aid of the phonograph, have been made thoroughly practical by means of an instrument known as the “magnaphone,” as is claimed by promoters of the device. The promoters are so well satisfied with the outcome of their experiments that they claim it will soon be used in all parts of the country. The instruments are not sound-magnifiers, but consist of a number of instruments resembling the megaphone which are placed in various parts of the audience, and the voice from the phonograph, which comes over a wire, is thus brought close enough to all parts of the house to make it plainly audible to every one.[7]

The following progress of “Picture Plays” has been kindly furnished by Mr. Alexander Black:

1--First “plays,” in three acts, written, photographed, and presented by Alexander Black--1894.

2--Episodic motion-pictures placed in series.

3--Short five-minute comedies in motion pictures.

4--Scenes of travel in motion-pictures.

5--Scenes from novels in motion-pictures (“Vanity Fair,” for example, presented in consecutive series--1911).

6--Scenes from “Odyssey” in consecutive series--1911-12.

7--Sarah Bernhardt in “Queen Elizabeth”--1912.

PICTURES IN NATURAL COLORS

With other improvements have come the admirable pictures in natural colors, all mechanically produced. For some time we have had hand-colored films, but these have required extraordinary patience on the part of the colorist, who had to treat each of the sixteen thousand pictures one at a time. Excessive care was also necessary as an overlap of a thirty-second part of an inch would show the color many inches out of place when the picture was shown enlarged on the screen. The work is so tedious that the capacity of the colorist is said to be limited to about thirty-five feet of film per day; the cost is thus made excessive. And the market needs, which frequently require two hundred reproductions of a reel, render the hand-colored film commercially impracticable.

The machine which now produces beautiful color pictures is known as the “kinemacolor.” It is the joint work of Mr. Charles Urban, an American who went to London a few years ago as a representative of manufacturers of an American motion-picture machine, and a London photographer. The machine differs from the ordinary cinematograph in several important particulars. The most noticeable difference is a rapidly driven, revolving skeleton frame known as a color-filter, which is located between the lens and the shutter. This color-filter is made up of different sections of specially prepared gelatin, two sections of which are colored, one red and the other green. The filter-screen is revolved while the pictures are taken, as well as when they are reproduced, being so geared that the red section of the filter appears in line with the lens for one photograph, and the green section for the next.

The photographs are all in pairs, and twice the number of pictures are taken and reproduced as in the ordinary machine, and the speed is also twice as great, the kinemacolor taking and reproducing thirty-two--and sometimes as many as fifty-five--per second, and the ordinary machine sixteen. Incidentally, to care for the greater speed the kinemacolor machine is also driven by a motor instead of by the ordinary hand-crank.

When a negative is produced through the red screen, red light is chiefly transmitted, and red-colored objects in the original will appear transparent on the copy produced from the negative. Where the next section of negative has moved into place the green section of the filter has come into position, and the red-colored objects on this part of the negative will appear dark. This can be noticed in the illustrations, where such objects as the red coats of the horsemen and the red of the flowers, as shown in the enlarged pictures, in the small pictures appear light in every second view, and dark in each succeeding one. When the pictures are thrown on a screen, the transparent parts allow the colors of the filter to pass through, and the revolutions of the filter are arranged for showing the appropriate color for every picture. This will cause confusion, if, in repairing a broken kinemacolor film, an uneven number of pictures are cut out and the “pairs” thus interfered with.

The successful reproducing of these wonderful colors is largely due to what we know as “persistence of vision” (the same principle on which the kinetoscope is based), and is easily recognized when we remember that the lighted point of a stick appears to our vision as a ring of fire when the stick is rapidly revolved. Just so with these pictures: they are produced so rapidly that the red of one lingers on the retina of the eye until the green appears, and the red of the first picture melts into the green of the next, which does not appear, however, until the red one has passed away. The green selected for the filter has in it a certain amount of blue, and the red a certain amount of orange, and in the fusion of the colors may be seen pleasing combinations of greenish-yellow, orange, grays, blues, and even rich indigos.

The early products of this kinemacolor process were the pictures of the George V “Coronation” and the “Durbar.” The coronation pictures are noteworthy for the brilliancy of the scenes, showing in action thousands of horses, some bay, some chestnut, while others are pure white, black, or of a peculiar cream color, all of them carrying gay horsemen, with bright red coats, before a sea of color shown in the gorgeous hats and exquisite gowns of the spectators and court attendants. The durbar pictures, of course, are more recent. They consist of 64,000 feet of pictures taken in Bombay, Calcutta, and Delhi, where the actual durbar ceremonial of coronation was held. The pictures at Calcutta, showing the royal elephants, are probably those which will most impress Americans, particularly those showing the superb control displayed when, at the mahout’s bidding, the elephants go into and under the water, head and all, and leave the mahout on his back apparently standing on the water’s surface. One set of pictures shows the elephants in the pageant, and illustrates the wonderful color capabilities of the process by distinctly reproducing on the enormous cloth of gold covering the elephants the sheen as its folds move with the elephants’ steps.

In another part of these durbar pictures is shown a sea of color where fifty thousand troops pass in review before the eyes of the spectator in ten minutes. Two sets of the pictures show how quick is the action of this particular process. These are the polo tournament at Delhi and the cavalry charge, the action in which was so rapid as to require the machine to take fifty-five pictures a second, in order to show faithfully all of the movement.

After witnessing pictures so full of interest and so wonderful in color effect and action, one accustomed to democratic ideas could but wonder to see moving upon the screen, on a mechanically revolved table, so inanimate an object as a crown of jewels. Interest, however, was aroused when it was learned that the appearance of this picture was due to the fact that, as a mark of high appreciation of the coronation and durbar pictures, the king broke many precedents and permitted his crown to be taken for photographing to the private studio of Mr. Urban, the inventor of the process. Incidentally, too, the crown was more wonderful than its appearance at a distance indicated; for the company informed the writer that it is made up of 6170 diamonds, 24 rubies, and 25 emeralds, the largest of which weighs thirty-four carats.

Another mark of the king’s appreciation was his storing away in the “Jewel Office” of the Tower of London, in hermetically sealed vessels, a complete set of the pictures, to show posterity at successive coronations the exact manner in which George V became King of England and Emperor of India.

FROM BUD TO BLOSSOM

A rare set of pictures taken by this color process which had not been given to the public was courteously shown to the writer in the private theater of the company. These, which are called “From Bud to Blossom,” show a stream of pictures in such rapid succession that they simulate the trick of the Eastern magician who makes flowers grow into being before the eyes of the spectator. The pictures are taken in intervals of about three minutes by an automatic arrangement which continues the work for a period required for the flower to blossom, which is usually about three days. The speed of the growth, as seen by the spectator, is thus magnified about from six thousand to nine thousand times the actual growth of the flowers. So faithfully has the camera performed its task that even the loosening of the petals can be counted one by one, and in one picture, where two buds of a poppy are shown, the growth of one is far enough ahead of the other to show its shattered petals wither and drop while the companion is left in its magnificence. In another picture the water in the glass is seen to evaporate to one fourth its quantity before the flowers have fully blossomed.

As a fitting climax, to excel in gorgeousness the pictures of the flowers, there were retained until the last a series of pictures of a battle “unto death” in an aquarium between water-beetles and a magnificently marked snake. It almost passes the imagination to see the distinct preservation of the many and varied colors of the snake as it writhes and twists among the rocks on the bottom in its endeavor to loose the hold of the beetles. The thought is delayed too long, for soon after the bottom is reached one of the beetles finishes his well-planned attack, and the neck of the snake is shown where these vigorous little insects of the water have chewed it half-way through. Vanquished, the snake gives up the battle as its lifeless form is stretched on the rocks at the bottom.

THE YOUNG HEART IN AGE

BY EDITH M. THOMAS

Let fall the ashen veil
On locks of ebon sheen;
And let Time’s furrowing tale
On once-smooth brows be seen.

And let my eyes forego
Their once-keen shaft of sight;
Let hands and feet not know
Their former skill or might.

Take all of outward grace,
Ye Aging Powers--but hold!
Touch not the inner place,
Let not my heart be old!

Then, Youth, to me repair;
And be my soothéd guest;
All things with you I share
Save one,--that wild unrest!

HER OWN LIFE

BY ALLAN UPDEGRAFF

She paid the landlady five dollars from a plump little purse of gold mesh.

“And I’m expecting a--a gentleman to see me within the next half-hour,” she said.

“Certainly, ma’am; I’ll show him right into the drawring-room and call you. I hope you’ll like the surroundings, ma’am; I have nobody in my house but the most refined--”

“Oh, I’m sure I shall. Good day.”

She sat on the edge of the bed in the furnished room she had just rented, and her face had the look of the girl’s face in a little autotype of “The Soul’s Awakening through Books” that hung on the wall opposite her. At last _her_ soul was awake; she could hear it whispering, whispering in her bosom. Or was that sound merely the exultation of her excited heart?

At any rate, her soul was awake. She knew it, she could feel it, and it made her tingle. At last she had broken her bonds, she had proclaimed herself a real person in a real world. Her doll existence and her doll-self were further behind than the doll’s house she had left. She was free--free to be herself, free to live her own life as her own desires decreed.

“Free! free!” she repeated under her breath. “Free!”

Her very presence gave a glamour to the shabby little room, so palpitating with life was she, so dainty and pretty and sweet, and so palpably young. The coils of her bright-brown hair were smooth and artfully simple, as only the fingers of an expert hair-dresser could have made them; her clear-skinned, brunette coloring showed the fine hand of nature given every chance to produce its best; the delicate, dark curves of her eyebrows, the carmine bows of her lips, the changing, liquid velvet of her gold-brown eyes, were masterpieces of the same supreme artist. She was as fair as an April morning that has somehow strayed into the luxuriance of June.

Suddenly she realized that the air in the little room was close, that the single tall window was closed top and bottom. With a quick rustle of silken draperies, she fluttered over to it and threw it wide. The sounds that came in were not the metallic tenor shriek of the “elevated,” the rumbling of wagons on cobblestones, the whining of surface cars: they were voices of the world. She held out her arms to them before returning to her perch on the bed.

There was such a dazzling host of things to be done that she could not begin to do anything. Her two big cowhide suitcases, standing in rather disdainful opulence beside the shabby chiffonier, invited her to unpack; but she dismissed the invitation with a toss of her head. How could she desecrate her first hour of freedom by putting clothing into bureau drawers? A mote-filled streak of sunshine, oblique with late afternoon, offered more congenial occupation. She let her eyes rest on it, and dreamed. It was pale golden, like hope, like the turrets of castles in Spain, like the wealth awaiting claimants at the foot of a rainbow. For a long time she looked into it, and her face put off its first flush of exultation for the wistful doubtfulness of reverie.

There was a knock at her door.

“Yes?” she answered.

“Your gentleman friend is a-waiting for you in the drawring-room, ma’am,” announced the landlady’s voice from outside.

“All right; thank you. I’ll be right down,” she said.

She arose in a small flutter of excitement, and patted her faultless hair before the mirror, turning her head this way and that. Gone was her doubtfulness, her wistfulness; she had brightened like a mirror when a lamp is brought into the room. The warm color in her cheeks deepened, and her eyes felicitated their doubles in the mirror. Lightly she fluttered down the broad stairway to the tiled hall below. At the entrance to the parlor she paused a moment, then swept back the heavy curtain with such an air as one might use in unveiling a statue.

A man, sitting in the big Turkish rocking-chair between the front windows, rose hastily to his feet. He was a compact, short-statured, middle-aged man, with a look of grave alertness behind the friendly set of his face.

“Mrs. Wendell?” he murmured, coming forward.

“And so you,” she said, still poising between the curtains, “are Ames Hallton!” Immediately she laughed. “That sounds like melodrama,” she exclaimed. “I’m very glad to see you.”

They shook hands. Her eyes continued to regard him with the puzzled interest that wonderful objects frequently inspire when seen closely. There was a faint shadow of disappointment on her face, but she did not allow it to linger.

“It was kind--it was awf’ly kind of you to come,” she said. “Sha’n’t we sit down? Do you know, I almost thought you wouldn’t come.”

“Your letter was very interesting,” he returned dryly.

“I tried to make it that way--so interesting that you just couldn’t keep from coming.” She folded her hands in her brown-silk lap and gravely bowed her head so that light from the window could bring out the copper tints in her hair. She felt the judicial expression of the gray eyes watching her, and chose the simplest means of making partizans of them. “I was quite desperate, and after I’d read your ‘Love’s Ordeal’ I knew you were the one person who could help me.”

“Have you already left your husband?” he inquired.

She winced a little, and her brows protested. “You remind me of a surgeon,” she said; “but that’s what I need--that’s what attracted me to you in your book. It’s all so calm and simple and scientific. It made me realize for the first time what I was--it and Ibsen’s ‘Doll’s House.’ I was nothing but a plaything, a parasite, a mistress, a doll.” She bowed her head in shame. The warm color flooding her cheeks was as flawless as that in the finest tinted bisque.

“What you say is very, very interesting,” murmured Hallton; and she knew from his changed tone that the fact of her beauty had at last been borne in upon him.

With renewed confidence, almost with boldness, she lifted her head and continued: “You see, I was married when I was only eighteen--just out of boarding-school. I was already sick of hearing about love; everybody made love to me.”

“Of course,” said Hallton, slightly sarcastic.

“I couldn’t help that, could I?” she complained, turning the depths of her gold-brown eyes full upon him.

He lowered his own eyes and pursed his lips.

“No, of course not,” he admitted. “And then, when you realized that you were--inconveniently situated, you decided to imitate _Nora_ in the ‘Doll’s House,’ and get out? Is that it?”

“Well, yes; but--”

“So you explained to your husband how you felt, and left him?”

“I didn’t exactly explain; my thoughts seemed to be all mixed up: I thought it would be better to write, after I’d thought a little more.” Again she allowed the glory of her eyes to be her best apologist. “I was going to write as soon as I’d had a talk with you. You see, I came away only two hours ago, and Harry--my husband--will just think I’ve gone to visit somewhere.” Her beauty made a confident appeal that he would sanction her position.

But Hallton looked out of the window.

“And what do you expect to do to earn your living,” he asked, “now that you’ve decided to quit being a parasite?”

It was cruelly unfamiliar ground, this necessity he put upon her of answering questions with mere words; she had become accustomed to use glances as a final statement of her position, as a full and sufficient answer for any question that a man could ask her. Nevertheless, she drew herself together and addressed Hallton’s unappreciative profile:

“My husband will give me an allowance, I’m sure, until I decide on some suitable occupation; or, if he is mean enough not to, there’ll be alimony or--or something like that, won’t there?” Her eyebrows began to arch a little as Hallton continued to look out of the window, and her lips lost some of their softness. “That is one of the things I wished to speak to you about,” she explained. “I thought perhaps I might take up writing, and I thought you might tell me the best way to begin.”

Hallton put one hand to his forehead.

“However, of course the most important thing,” she resumed steadily, “is for me to live my own life. That’s what I’ve come to realize: I must express myself, I must be free. Why, I didn’t know I had a soul until I found myself alone a short time ago in the little room that I had rented myself, all for myself. I’ve been a chattel--yes, a chattel!” Her voice quavered; she hesitated, waiting for at least a glance of encouragement.

“I hoped you’d understand, that you’d advise me,” she murmured. “I’m afraid I’m frightfully helpless; I’ve always been that way.”

“My God! yes, madam!” he exploded, facing her; “I should think you were!”

She made no reply; she did not even show surprise by a change of expression; she simply sat up very straight and faced him with the look of clear-eyed intelligence that she had found best suited to situations utterly beyond her comprehension. She waited, calm-browed, level-eyed, judicious-mouthed, for him to explain, to apologize.

“I beg your pardon,” he said.

Her silence demanded more.

“I was rather overcome; I was about to take a cheap, narrow view of your--your dilemma,” he explained. “I was about to say that your troubles were as common as dirt, and that you were wrong to take them so idealistically, and not to realize the simplest fundamentals, of--. Women are going through a period of readjustment just now, of course. Your troubles probably aren’t much greater than those of any woman, or man, who goes out to hunt a job. You don’t need to smash things, to kick up a row.”

She watched, with the penetrating gaze of a Muse, his half-disgusted attempts to be polite. She had not the slightest idea what he was driving at; she merely understood that only his regard for her beauty and womanhood kept him from saying wild, irrational things. It occurred to her that he might be mentally unbalanced; geniuses often were.

“Look here,” he continued, growing increasingly excited under her look of beautiful, understanding aloofness, “wouldn’t it be a good thing if you decided, before beginning to live your own life, just what sort of life your own life is--what you want to make of it? You’re breaking away from a beastly artificial environment; aren’t you afraid you’ll have as hard a time as, say, a pet canary turned out to make a living among the sparrows? Besides, canaries are quite as useful as sparrows.”

“I hardly think,” she said with great determination, “that I can be compared to a pet canary; and I’ll have to ask you to be more considerate in referring to my husband. He may not understand me, but he is kind, and as good as he knows--”

“Excuse me,” interrupted Hallton, putting his hand to his forehead; “but I have no recollection of referring to your husband at all.”

“You spoke of my breaking away from him,” she said, “and you called him a beastly artificial--I won’t repeat what you said.” The delicate curves of her cheeks warmed with the memory of the unfamiliar appellation, with faint doubt as to her first idea of its value. “However, that’s neither here nor there. I wish to ask you a simple, straightforward question, Mr. Hallton: do you, or do you not, think it is right for persons to live their own lives?”

For a moment she thought she had succeeded in bringing him back to a humble consideration of her case; he looked at her with something like consternation in his face, his alert, gray eyes blinking rapidly. Light from the window made her massed hair a soft, golden glimmer above the sweet, injured, girlish seriousness of her face; her lips softened, curved downward, like a troubled child’s.

But Hallton turned from her to look out of the window.

“Your own life, your own life!” he exploded again. “Why, you great, big, beautiful doll, that’s your own life--a doll’s life! When is a doll not a doll?” He got out of his chair and jerked his coat together at the throat. His lower jaw protruded; he looked through rather than at her, and his eyes were sick and tired. “Even your talk is the talk of an automaton; you haven’t an idea without a forest of quotation-marks around it,” he said. “If you weren’t so good-looking, you’d be a private in that big brigade of female nincompoops who write their soul-troubles to the author of the latest successful book. Your beauty removes you from that class--at least as long as I look at you.”

He bowed to her, with an expression slightly resembling a sneer.

“Your beauty makes you a temptation; for you’d soon be looking for another cage, or another doll’s house, and any man might be glad to feed you. If I weren’t so busy, and you weren’t so devoid of character, common sense, everything else that--”

“Oh, you brute!” she cried, recoiling from the crassly material admiration in his eyes. “How dare you speak to me like that?”

“Perfect!” He bowed with his hand on his heart. “I press the button, and you utter the absolutely obvious remarks. You are a masterpiece--such a doll as would grace any home of the middle of the last century. And my advice to you is to go back to your home and to your devoted husband. I take it for granted that he is devoted: the prices which you mechanical beauties command usually include devotion by the bucketful. But perhaps I’m unnecessarily harsh because I see you slipping through my fingers. Good day, Mrs. Wendell; and good luck!”

She saw him go with a feeling that the universe had suddenly been inverted and that she was scrambling around amid a Noah’s ark load of displaced properties. It was not so much that he had disturbed her ideals, her plans, her dream of freedom, but that he could have treated her so cavalierly; that he could have been so impolite, so unreasonable, so brutal; that he could so completely have failed to understand her--that was what left her as dazed and terrified as a lost child.

“Oh, he is a cad, a perfect beast!” she gasped to herself as she fled up the broad stairway to her room.

She threw herself down on the hard little bed, crumpled silks, crumpled hair, crumpled rose-petals of cheeks, crumpled pansies-and-dew of eyes. All her sweetness and delicacy wilted and drooped and quivered in the cold, gathering gloom of the little room. The city snarled and rumbled and hissed and groaned outside, and its great composite voice was the voice of loneliness incarnate.

“Oh, there’s no one to take care of me!” she sobbed suddenly, and burst into a flood of tears.

A CORNER OF THE TABLE

FROM THE PAINTING BY CHARLES CHABAS

(EXAMPLES OF CONTEMPORARY FRENCH ART)]

A DISTANT VIEW OF THE ACROPOLIS AT SUNSET]

SKIRTING THE BALKAN PENINSULA

FROM TRIEST TO CONSTANTINOPLE

THIRD PAPER: THE ENVIRONS OF ATHENS

BY ROBERT HICHENS

Author of “The Spell of Egypt,” “The Holy Land,” “The Garden of Allah,” etc.

WITH PICTURES BY JULES GUÉRIN AND PHOTOGRAPHS

Upon the southern slope of the Acropolis, beneath the limestone precipices and the great golden-brown walls above which the Parthenon shows its white summit, are many ruins; among them the Theater of Dionysus and the Odeum of Herodes Atticus, the rich Marathonian who spent much of his money in the beautification of Athens, and who taught rhetoric to two men who eventually became Roman emperors. The Theater of Dionysus, in which Æschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides produced their dramas, is of stone and silver-white marble. Many of the seats are arm-chairs, and are so comfortable that it is no uncommon thing to see weary travelers, who have just come down from the Acropolis, resting in them with almost unsuitable airs of unbridled satisfaction.

It is evident to any one who examines this great theater carefully that the Greeks considered it important for the body to be at ease while the mind was at work; for not only are the seats perfectly adapted to their purpose, but ample room is given for the feet of the spectators, the distance between each tier and the tier above it being wide enough to do away with all fear of crowding and inconvenience. The marble arm-chairs were assigned to priests, whose names are carved upon them. In the theater I saw one high arm-chair, like a throne, with lion’s feet. This is Roman, and was the seat of a Roman general. The fronts of the seats are pierced with small holes, which allow the rain-water to escape. Below the stage there are some sculptured figures, most of them headless. One which is not is a very striking and powerful, though almost sinister, old man, in a crouching posture. His rather round forehead resembles the very characteristic foreheads of the Montenegrins.

Herodes Atticus restored this theater. Before his time it had been embellished by Lycurgus of Athens, the orator, and disciple of Plato. It is not one of the gloriously placed theaters of the Greeks, but from the upper tiers of seats there is a view across part of the Attic plain to the isolated grove of cypresses where the famous Schliemann is buried, and beyond to gray Hymettus.

Standing near by is another theater, Roman-Greek, not Greek, the Odeum of Herodes Atticus, said to have been built by him in memory of his wife. This is not certain, and there are some authorities who think that, like the beautiful arch near the Olympieion, this peculiar, very picturesque structure was raised by the Emperor Hadrian, who was much fonder of Athens than of Rome.

The contrast between the exterior, the immensely massive, three-storied façade with Roman arches, and the interior, or, rather, what was once the interior, of this formerly roofed-in building, is very strange. They do not seem to belong to each other, to have any artistic connection the one with the other.

THEATER OF DIONYSUS ON THE SOUTHERN SLOPE OF THE ACROPOLIS]

The outer walls are barbarically huge and heavy, and superb in color. They gleam with a fierce-red gold, and are conspicuous from afar. The almost monstrous, but impressive, solidity of Rome, heavy and bold, indeed almost crudely imperious, is shown forth by them--a solidity absolutely different from the Greek massiveness, which you can study in the Doric temples, and far less beautiful. When you pass beyond and this towering façade, which might well be a section of the Colosseum transferred from gladiatorial Rome to intellectual Athens, you find yourself in a theater which looks oddly, indeed, almost meanly, small and pale and graceful. With a sort of fragile timidity it seems to be cowering behind the flamboyant walls. When all its blanched marble seats were crowded with spectators it contained five thousand persons. As you approach the outer walls, you expect to find a building that might accommodate perhaps twenty-five thousand. There is something bizarre in the two colors, fierce and pale, in the two sizes, huge and comparatively small, that are united in the odeum. Though very remarkable, it seems to me to be one of the most inharmonious ruins in Greece.

The modern Athenians are not very fond of hard exercise, and except in the height of summer, when many of them go to Kephisia and Phalerum, and others to the islands, or to the baths near Corinth for a “cure,” they seem well content to remain within their city. They are governed, it seems, by fashion, like those who dwell in less-favored lands. When I was in Athens the weather was usually magnificent and often very hot. Yet Phalerum, perhaps half an hour by train from Constitution Square, was deserted. In the vast hotel there I found only two or three children, in the baths half a dozen swimmers. The pleasure-boats lay idle by the pier. I asked the reason of this--why at evening dusty Athens was crammed with strollers, and the pavements were black with people taking coffee and ices, while delightful Phalerum, with its cooler air and its limpid waters, held no one but an English traveler?

“The season is over,” was the only reply I received, delivered with a grave air of finality. I tried to argue the matter, and suggested that anxiety about the war had something to do with it. But I was informed that the “season” closed on a certain day, and that after that day the Athenians gave up going to Phalerum.

The season for many things seemed “over” when I was in Athens. Round-about the city, and within easy reach of it, there is fascinating country--country that seems to call you with a smiling decision to enjoy all Arcadian delights; country, too, that has great associations connected with it. From Athens you can go to picnic at Marathon or at Salamis, or you can carry a tea-basket to the pine-woods which slope down to the Convent of Daphni, and come back to it after paying a visit to Eleusis. Or, if you are not afraid of a “long day,” you can motor out and lunch in the lonely home of the sea-god under the columns at Sunium. If you wish to go where a king goes, you can spend the day in the thick woods at Tatoï. If you are full of social ambition, and aim at “climbing,” a train in not many minutes will set you down at Kephisia, the summer home of “the fifty-two” on the slope of a spur of Mount Pentelicus.