Chapter III

I see green fields
In the first flush of the spring,
And little children playing,
Clustered as patches of white flowers.

Musik or Music?

JAMES WHITTAKER

Despite its two world-cities our America is still a vast unattached province, subject now to the influence of London, now to that of Berlin or Paris, and again in a period of disaffection and unrestraint. Our taste is childish,—a capricious, intermittent taste—good once in a while, never lasting, and by no means frequent. Such a taste gives a few pleasures but not the developed one of judgment. It never lasts long enough to be imposed. We are unable to pair two congenial traditions and get a tendency. There is nothing for it but to welcome another generation of incomprehensible foreigners in the hope that among them will be found a mate for our very real desire for fine things.

One country has sent us little inspiration. Her natives do not willingly leave her soft sky for our harsh brilliant western sun. They have a proverbial preference for her gentle manner and speech. For our youth she has the admiration and envy of age, for our red knuckles and large ankles she has the indulgence of one who has been beautiful for many lovers, but for our loud-mouthed demand for adulation she has the aloofness of one who has still many courtiers. If we go fearfully as befits our youth and humbly as befits our awkwardness to Paris, instead of waiting for Paris the beautiful to come to us, perhaps we shall receive what Berlin and London have not yet given us.

London came to us willingly with a scholarly something that was better than our previous nothing. Berlin forced on us a manner of strong professionalism that was better than our previous weakness. Now we are beyond the age of facile conquests and we must, at the risk of being rebuffed and made unhappy, seek the favor of a lady who stays at home.

Since the spirit of Mozart and Beethoven and Schubert left Vienna, Music has loved no city. We shall soon agree that she did not love Weimar greatly nor Munich at all nor Leipzig enough. As for the lusty person who flaunts a passion for Berlin, we must call her a maid masquerading in her mistress’s cloak if, indeed, we concede her a resemblance to music at all.

The joy of loveliness admired, the frankness and naivete, the “jeu perle” and natural melodiousness that were the life of Viennese Music vanished utterly with the death of Schubert unknown. It seemed that he and his predecessors must have brought music into a cul-de-sac from which it would have to extricate itself. German music did and received new impetus from the professionalism of Weber, the literary romanticism of Liszt, the savoir-vivre of Chopin, and the cosmicality of Wagner. France, meanwhile, entertained loyally the older manner, nursing it through its unpopularity into the convalescence it now enjoys. When we come to discover that the spirit of Berlin is rather of something hyphenated to “Kultur” than of music purely, we shall also discover the spirit of Vienna,—vigorous and slightly Frenchified, in the Conservatoire and the Schola Cantorum.

Somehow, without the least effort or merit, we have strolled into the position of the “distinguished amateur.” It is an eminence from which one may see everything if one but keep a clear eye and a doubting mind. What fools we should be to view the road before us as we can only this once, wearing a prejudice like a pair of smoked goggles. To doubt is a privilege which the wise will make a duty. We should doubt what has given us our artistic existence, and if it can only stand by our faith it will fall—but we shall not fall with it. We should doubt the things we desire so that when we abandon them we cannot be reproached with broken faith. We _must_ doubt the strength of organized professionalism that Berlin would teach us, the value of hard work the contrapunctalists of the Royal Academy preach;—we _must_ doubt the superiority of art and the artist, the inviolability of tradition, the legitimacy of the Beethoven-Wagner-Strauss succession for the reason that they have been so freely offered if for no other. Surely such eagerness to be accepted does not prove great worth. Let us pooh-pooh all these magnificent “Pooh-Bahs” of music to see if their threats to have our heads off are real or bluff. Then with our tongues still in our cheeks, let us continue on to other courts.

If we have enjoyed the simple and fine art with which Beethoven and Schubert enlivened and refined the salons of Vienna, we shall enjoy Franck. If we should prefer our Mozart livelier by a notch of the metronome and lighter by one-half of the strings than we hear it now, we should be pleased by Chabrier and Faure and the way they are played by the half-dozen youngsters who get their premier prix at the end of each year’s work in the Conservatoire. From pure inertia we have out-stayed our pleasure in modern German music. A bit of animation and on to Paris!

The Critics’ Catastrophe

(A Probable Possibility)

HERMAN SCHUCHERT

The scene is a dining-room of the “Cave Dwellers,” Chicago’s most
exclusively stupid club. At one table are seated four musical
critics, and one ex-critic, of the daily papers. That this
gathering is unique is attested by numerous hushed conversations
at other tables; the critics’ table is a center of half-concealed
interest. A waiter has just cleared away the dishes; cigars are
brought. The youngest critic, of the Worst Glaring Nuisance (witness
the yellow acre of illuminated sign at the foot of Michigan avenue)
speaks as if to reassure his natural timidity:

DONALD WORCESTER. I suppose it will be eminently respectable. (The others appear not to have heard his remark, until a reply is carefully chosen by

CARBON HATCHETT. Her advance notices would lead one to suppose that she has something of a prestige.

EDWARD MORLESS. That guff! I saw it. Awful! What I want to know is: what the devil does she mean by beginning her program with Debussy. I just wonder what’s become of Beethoven—ha, ha!

DONALD WORCESTER. I suppose she imagines she’s going to revolutionize program-making.

BEN DULLARD KRUPP. Gentlemen, when I give my piano recital on March twentieth, you’ll hear the best possible way to start a program. Debussy is altogether too weak to lead; he’s scarcely able to get in at all (chuckle) but I’ve found a leader that is a leader—Archibald Shanks. If I know anything, and I do, this Shanks is going to become _the_ American composer. Why, he’s so much better than MacDowell with all his Scotchy junk that there’s no comparison. I found Shanks in Rolling Prairie, South Dakota; and when I play his _March of the Rock-Spirits_ at my recital on March the twentieth, you’ll hear the real thing—it’s music, I tell you.

XILEF BOWOWSKI. Hmh! Ah-hmh! I remember looking over compositions by Archibald Shanks, sent me by a certain New York publisher, to get my opinion before taking them; and in one of them—I forget the title—I think it was _Through the Marsh_—some such title—hmh!—it doesn’t really matter—I found seven consecutive fifths and twelve parallel octaves within the space of a few bars. Positively inexcusable!

BEN DULLARD KRUPP. Blgh-h! That belongs to his early period. _Through the Marsh_ is simply a practice-stunt, done when he was about fifteen—a mere youthful exercise. You can’t judge by—blgh-h!

DONALD WORCESTER. I read in the _Artists’ News_ that young Shanks is only seventeen at the present time.

EDWARD MORLESS. Probably means his son—Waiter!—What do you want, boys? I’m dry as a bone. And we’ve got a long afternoon before us. However, for my part, I shan’t be in any hurry about getting there. What’ll it be?

XILEF BOWOWSKI. A little plum brandy for me.

BEN DULLARD KRUPP. Bring me some Haig and Haig.

CARBON HATCHETT. Manhattan cocktail.

DONALD WORCESTER. A large beer.

EDWARD MORLESS. Good! Let’s have some Green River, Tim. Krupp, do you think she’ll be any good at all?

BEN DULLARD KRUPP. A woman? From Budapest? On a Thimble piano? Starting in with Debussy? And you ask if she’ll be good! How could she be?

DONALD WORCESTER. I was reading the other day——

BEN DULLARD KRUPP. All she plays is trash, of one kind or another. Debussy never does anything but move up and down the whole-tone scale; no melody, no counterpoint, no music at all. And take the Tchaikowsky thing, for instance. Everybody knows that Tchaikowsky always carried a whip in one hand and a gun in the other, and when he wasn’t using one, it was the other. It’s proverbial, and makes such a handy remark when thinking would take too long. And his piano-style: he simply hasn’t got any; it’s pathetic. I see you don’t get my joke on the sixth symphony—the Pathetique. I say, America won’t stand for that sort of thing. Some kindly person should have informed this Madame Frizza Bonjoline before she made a complete fool of herself.

CARBON HATCHETT. She hasn’t played yet, and maybe it won’t be so bad after all.

DONALD WORCESTER. A friend of mine tells me that Mr. Debussy is one of the greatest living melodists.

BEN DULLARD KRUPP. Blgh-h!

No further imbecility is displayed for the time being. Soon the
party breaks up, and a natural modesty prevents the critics from
seeing each other again until after the piano recital by Madame
Frizza Bonjoline, an artist who is but slightly known in the
United States, but one who has achieved recognition throughout
Europe, South America, and Australia. She has just given an
unusual program, which she could not close with less than seven
encores. While the five critics wait outside the green-room, they
hold a restrained conversation.

HATCHETT TO KRUPP. It’s good to have you among us again, Krupp. Although I do have a terrible time steering my thoughts through the mazes of the English language I feel like the only live one left, since the Trib dropped you. The town needs you, and I’m glad you have an opportunity again to mould public opinion. We need more strong-minded men like you.

KRUPP (fiercely). I know it, but the cattle don’t recognize good criticism when they see it.

HATCHETT TO KRUPP. How did the Madame strike you? Plenty of emotion, I thought.

KRUPP (to all). Impossible program—good God!—did you ever hear such a medley? And she hasn’t the strength of a kitten.

HATCHETT TO KRUPP. Of course, she didn’t seem quite vital enough, but that may have been because of her choice of numbers. They were somewhat “outre.”

KRUPP (sourly). Altogether too girlish, I say.

EDWARD MORLESS. Splendid personality, but a rotten technic, don’t you think?

DONALD WORCESTER. As near as I can tell, she wears marvelous silk hose. They were the most striking thing about the whole concert.

BEN DULLARD KRUPP. Blgh-ggh-h!

XILEF BOWOWSKI. I suppose then, Mr. Worcester, one doesn’t require any ears to get the good or bad out of a concert—only eyes.

EDWARD MORLESS. Well, Bowowski, ears were a nuisance today, at any rate, don’t you think? The optic impressions were far the best—easily. I wonder when we’re going to get in here.

Xilef Bowowski has been tramping up and down the corridor, his
ultra-distinguished chin a trifle elevated, his hands locked
behind his back. He is evidently searching for words. In a
moment, the door of the green-room swings open and a well-dressed
man is seen bidding good-bye to Madame Frizza. The stranger takes
no notice of the group of critics as he brushes past and hurries
away. Then a most charming voice welcomes the five critics. The
Madame is greeted by four blushes and one scowl. The scowling one,
Mr. Krupp, is the first one to enter the green-room. Close behind
him come the embarrassed four.

MADAME BONJOLINE. Gentlemen, this is so good of you. And how did you like my recital? I hope it pleased you—yes?

There is a moment of silence which, as it becomes awkward, is broken
by

DONALD WORCESTER. Some concert, all right.

MADAME BONJOLINE. How good of you. I am happy.

BEN DULLARD KRUPP. I confess I find myself unable to understand the judgment which places Debussy at the first of a program. Now why did you——

MADAME BONJOLINE. Ah,—ho, ho, ha, ha—that is our little joke, gentlemen, is it not? I suppose no one knew that I played Rachmaninoff instead of Debussy at the start—no one but ourselves. I changed my mind after I was out on the platform.

BEN DULLARD KRUPP. I was—blgh-h!—that is, Mr. Stalk was at my office to see me about my coming American orchestra concert, at which I myself conduct, and so I was detained, and did not get to hear your opening number.

DONALD WORCESTER. How did you manage to get along without Brahms, Madame. I should be interested——

MADAME BONJOLINE. Oh, you did not hear my third encore, then—the Brahms B-minor Capriccio. I am so sorry you missed it.

DONALD WORCESTER. Oh, was that Brahms? I thought it sounded rather chunky, now that I recall it.

EDWARD MORLESS. Would it seem too—well, let us say—American to you if I were to ask you to lunch with me, Madame Bonjoline? I should be extremely happy to have that pleasure.

MADAME BONJOLINE. Ah, but the pleasure is mine. I shall be delighted to accept—that is, if there is time. I make that condition only.

EDWARD MORLESS. Thank you, thank you, Madame.

XILEF BOWOWSKI. Madame Bonjoline, do you remember the date of publication of the Gliere Prelude which you played today? It has completely slipped my mind.

MADAME (laughing). My good sir, I could not recall it to save my soul.

DONALD WORCESTER. I wish your playing sounded as good as it looks, Madame.

MADAME BONJOLINE. How delightfully American you are! So frank, so utterly frank! But that reminds me: my friend, James Shooneker—perhaps you saw him; he left just as you came in—told me that my playing looked as good as it sounded. How strange a coincidence! You all know him, of course. For Europe, he is the great critic. He is in Chicago for a short time, and he is going to review my recital for a magazine here—I believe it is called _Le Petit Revue_, or something like that.

BEN DULLARD KRUPP. Oh, yes; that effusive young lady’s journal, _The Little Review_. I have heard of it. Ha!

DONALD WORCESTER. Their poor musical writer was in your audience this afternoon, Madame.

BEN DULLARD KRUPP. He’s one of those chaps you can meet three or four times and still never recognize on the street.

MADAME BONJOLINE. So? At any rate, James Shooneker is going to “write up” (I believe you say) my recital. I understand that this number of _The Little Review_ is coming from the press in the morning, and his article will appear in it.

CARBON HATCHETT. So, indeed. This Mr. Shooneker, if I remember correctly, has written a book—what is the title of it?

MADAME BONJOLINE. Och! He has written so many, many books! I do not know which one you mean.

The charms of the woman, her little moues, smiles, and quick
gestures, are entangling the five men. Conversation becomes
increasingly difficult. The writers leave the green-room and, on
the outside with the door closed, they glance nervously at one
another.

EDWARD MORLESS. Say: this James Shooneker,—who’s he?

BEN DULLARD KRUPP. Who cares who he is? His stuff won’t get far in that sheet.

EDWARD MORLESS. Of course not. I just wondered. For my part, I’ve had a terrible afternoon.

DONALD WORCESTER. But Ed, think of tonight. You’ve got to listen to Walter Spratt’s piano-playing.

CARBON HATCHETT. Do you call that playing?

Nothing seems to relieve the collective nervousness of the five
judges. At the outer door, they separate. Ben Dullard Krupp makes
his way to McChug’s book-store and, after one swift glance up the
street and another down the street, he pushes strenuously through
the whirling doors. With swinging tread, he marches down the
broad center aisle and hails a busy clerk. Yes, the clerk has
sometimes heard of James Shooneker and—yes,—they have a book or
two of his—just a minute. Then a convulsive terror seizes Ben
Dullard Krupp, for on the other side of the same counter stands
Donald Worcester. The younger approaches the elder with
unaccustomed familiarity, having him, at the moment, on the hip,
as it were.

DONALD WORCESTER. Looking up Shooneker? Here’s one of his things,—_Half-tones in Modern Music_.

BEN DULLARD KRUPP. Oh, yes; that. I remember reading it when I was scarcely more than a boy.

DONALD WORCESTER. It was published in 1909, I see.

BEN DULLARD KRUPP. Must be a later edition, then. Oh, pshaw! What’s the use of waiting for that clerk? I think I have a complete set of Shooneker packed away at home.

DONALD WORCESTER. That so? Well, I’ll tell the clerk you couldn’t wait. Maybe I’d like the book myself, if it’s worth anything at all.

The presence in Chicago of one James Shooneker is like some
fearfully disturbing shadow behind each of the five writers.
Bowowski, within half an hour after the recital, has three
helpers in the Public Library searching for every printed word of
Shooneker. After a tasteless dinner, Ben Dullard Krupp scares
three piano pupils out of their wits by an unusual amount of
shouting and stamping; this, also, should be attributed to the
visiting author. Worcester seeks his desk in the editorial room
and crams on “Pathetic Spaces”—Shooneker’s latest book, according
to the clerk. But the young critic’s attention strays from the
pages of print to the lady in the green-room ... lovely person,
if she can’t play the piano. Worcester has an impulse to use
the telephone, and soon it masters him. He calls up Madame
Bonjoline’s hotel and, as she is out, leaves a message—he will
call in person at eight o’clock. Then a note is written, which he
despatches to her by messenger. After that, there is time to
think things over. Was there ever anyone as charming as she? And
she has expressed her admiration for his frank manner and open
criticism. Perhaps——Now the Madame is not willing to admit him at
first; but he is insistent, and she permits him to enter. James
Shooneker is seated by the window. Worcester, like a guilty boy,
shakes hands with him and mumbles acknowledgement. But soon the
celebrated critic has him at his ease, and the young journalist
is talking with his accustomed candor. Then, continuing in the
same friendly manner,

JAMES SHOONEKER. Mr. Worcester, you might be interested in knowing the reason for my Chicago visit. In fact, it is only fair you should know.

DONALD WORCESTER. Sure!

JAMES SHOONEKER. Very well then. Your paper, the Worst Glaring Nuisance, as its catch-word has it, has sent for me to fill the vacancy created by your resignation.

DONALD WORCESTER. Who’s bluff is this?

JAMES SHOONEKER. It is true. I have your place offered me. Now, I don’t want to seem arbitrary, but here’s my proposition: In the first place, cut out your infatuation for Madame Bonjoline. That’s the main condition, if you want me to leave Chicago. The second thing is perhaps more important to yourself, and that is that you promise to take a long course in counterpoint and musical history under some good authority, if you can find one in the United States. Perhaps you would do well to tap the boundless information of your friend, Bowowski. These are my only demands. I don’t want your job. I’ll drop a note to your editor and tell him he doesn’t appreciate you. But you will have to forget your aspirations for the Madame, and behave yourself with a dignity becoming your position. You mustn’t make yourself ridiculous over Frizza, and for her sake—

DONALD WORCESTER. Shooneker, you certainly are a brick! You certainly are! I can’t help being a bit dazed with Madame, but I’ll keep it all to myself. You’re a peach!

MADAME BONJOLINE. See, James, how perfectly American he is! I told you he would be. Isn’t he a dear boy?

JAMES SHOONEKER. You like the conditions, then?

DONALD WORCESTER. Bully! I appreciate them. And say, didn’t you write a book once called _The Insane Melons_?

JAMES SHOONEKER. Yes, I have a book with a title something like that. Why do you ask?

DONALD WORCESTER. If you’ve got one with you, I’d like a signed copy.

JAMES SHOONEKER. I’m very sorry, but I didn’t bring any with me. Perhaps I can send you one later.

DONALD WORCESTER. Fine! I wish you would. That’s treating me mighty good.

MADAME BONJOLINE. You deserve it, my boy.

In a confusion of thanks, apologies, and compliments, Worcester
leaves the room and returns to the office, where an article is
written which harbors no doubt that Madame Frizza is a great
pianist. About the same hour, Mr. Morless is passing in a copy of
his own criticism, stating that the Madame is a fairly promising
amateur. The menacing cloud of Shooneker seems to hang over him;
it has nearly prevented his passing in the article. And Ben
Dullard Krupp, without a regular post, mails his lengthy and
scathing opinion of the Madame to a weekly paper, in the hope of
securing a steady allotment of their space. To him, also, the
thought of an “outside” critic in their midst is irritating and,
at times, threatening. What was HE going to say about her? His
word might have weight. Suppose ... and Krupp wishes now he could
reach into the mail-box and pull out his article. But the panic
passes; he recalls several of his pet phrases, and this restores
full confidence in his own finality.

Again—the same dining-room in the “Cave Dwellers,” with three of
the critics disposing of an early lunch, almost early enough to be
called breakfast.

BOWOWSKI. They can’t print more than a couple hundred.

HATCHETT. Somebody told me they had several thousand paid subscriptions, and then printed a bunch of extras.

KRUPP. What difference does that make? The point is: what will they sell for? I’m good for my share, but there’s a limit, you know. Do you suppose that if I offered to do their musical criticism, they would destroy this issue as it stands?

HATCHETT. You can’t tell. It isn’t “they” but “she.” You’re dealing with a woman, a young one at that.

KRUPP. Oh, Hell; I can get around that difficulty. Waiter! Bring me a telephone! Hurry up!

BOWOWSKI. Do you realize, gentlemen, that it is more than possible, in fact it is even likely, considerably more than probable, that we are right in the case of Madame Bonjoline, and that one James Shooneker is in error?

HATCHETT. By George! That’s so, isn’t it!

KRUPP. There’s no question about it. Just wait a minute now, while I call up this “Little Revolt”—ha! ha!—and see how they jump at the mention of my name.

Ben Dullard Krupp is informed over the wire that the new issue of_
THE LITTLE REVIEW _in large quantities is already in the mails, etc.
In fact, at the same moment, the famous Shooneker is glancing
through his own contribution; he swears at a misprint and puts
the magazine in his suitcase, to read on the train. Madame
Bonjoline does not open her copy, having read the article
concerning herself from manuscript, two weeks before.

KRUPP. Rank insolence, I call it!

HATCHETT. What’s the matter? Won’t they sell?

KRUPP. She says the mails are flooded with the impudent sheet.

BOWOWSKI. Horrible! Horrible, indeed!

KRUPP. It’s a great pity somebody couldn’t loosen up and say something about this Shooneker. How did I know who he was, or that his opinion was worth anything? Fine chance I’ll have now of getting on The Saturday Blade!

BOWOWSKI. Perhaps if you had been able to curb your unfounded hatred of Tchaikowsky for a moment, we wouldn’t have been placed in this ridiculous position.

KRUPP. Blgh-gg-h! It’s bad music, rotten! and I don’t care who knows I said it. This country is simply spineless when it comes to having an opinion about music. Why, I’ve got enough opinion to supply the nation, and they need it. That’s why I put on my American concerts. They’ve got to learn that I’m the only prophet in America’s musical future. I feel that it’s my duty—

HATCHETT. Tchaikowsky has written some very good—

KRUPP. Tchaikowsky! Man! if you mention that mediocrity’s unhallowed name again, I’ll go completely mad!

BOWOWSKI. Great Heavens! Tim is coming to put us out, just on account of your infernal shouting. And look! With him! Shooneker! How perfectly horrible!

KRUPP. Blgh-gh-h!

Abashed and silent, the three judges leave the table and get into
their coats with more celerity than is comfortable. They glimpse
a faint smile on the face of their jinx as they hasten out. The
waiter, Tim, conceals his own mirth. Two critics rush down the
street without a word. Calling after them is

KRUPP. I don’t care who he is. I know I was right in saying—

A Shorn Strindberg

MARGUERITE SWAWITE.

Had Mme. Strindberg deliberately planned to revenge herself upon him who was once her husband, she could have devised no subtler way of wounding that redoubtable sham-hater than the manner in which she chose to speak of him before the Chicago public. As I sat in the prickly darkness, with its accompanying rumble of Beethoven, I half-expected the musty atmosphere of legerdemain to be scattered by the great August’s derisive laughter. But the promise of occult things was not fulfilled, for with the cessation of the music came a rosy glow, and then a gracious lady with a wistful presence. And she seemed quite at ease in her mise en scène.

She read to us of herself, of Prince Hassan’s feast in Paris, of her theatrical meeting with Strindberg, and of how he talked with her all the evening and later walked home with her; of how she stopped on the bridge to toss snowballs and Strindberg dried her hands upon his handkerchief; and of how she dreamed of him that memorable night—a strange symbolic dream. And as she read, her face was as quiet water rippled by gentle vagrant breezes.

The remainder of the meeting was distinguished by the fact that there was light, but the spirit of the seance persisted. Madame pleaded for questions, but the little audience seemed frozen into inarticulateness. Those few who did venture stammered for a moment and then drooped into silence. Madame, however, was not discouraged. She read us Strindberg’s views on divorce. In reply to the mumbled questions she replied that she considered eugenics impractical and indelicate, that her husband had believed intensely in peace and had written a beautiful story in its favor, which she had meant to read us but to which an accident had occurred; that Strindberg was a democrat in theory but an aristocrat in feeling; that he was not a misogynist, but had reviled bad women because he loved good women; that _The Father_ was a plea for the sanctity of the home, the sanctity of woman.... Until it seemed that she was not speaking of the bitter-tongued, fiery-souled Swede, but of some complacent American, say, Augustus Thomas. And then someone said that it was past ten, and Madame thanked us and disappeared.

As we swung down Michigan Avenue in the fresh night air I smiled to think that over across the water they still thought of us as the “hayseed” among the nations to whom the “gold brick” might be disposed with impunity—and with exceeding profit. But we are learning....

Vers Libre and Advertisements

JOHN GOULD FLETCHER

In common with all the judicious readers of American magazines and newspapers, I have learned to look on the advertising pages for the best examples of news the journalist can offer. It is only reasonable that this should be the case. Advertisement writers are the best-paid, least rewarded, and best-trained authors that America possesses. Compared to these, even the income of a Robert Chambers pales into insignificance. Moreover, they understand the public thoroughly and do not attempt to overstrain its attention by overseriousness, or exhaust its nerves by sentimentality. That is, the best ones do not. There may be some exceptions, but in the main I have found American advertisements refreshingly readable.

It had never occurred to me, however, that there might be gems of poetic ability hidden away in these tantalizing concoctions—these cocktails of prose. But I must revise my estimate. Without wishing to boom or discourage anyone’s products I cannot resist quoting some recent advertisements that I and I alone have discovered, seized, and gloated upon. After all, I approach the subject purely from the angle of form. What student of poetic form could afford to ignore the following:

SERVE A HOT MUFFIN SUPPER

Light flaky muffins, _oven hot_ and _golden topped_, a suppertime
goody that certainly will strike that hungry _spot_. Serve them
with the finest, richest syrup you can buy anywhere. That’s
“Velva,” with the best of flavor, nourishing goodness and the
satisfying elements that put real strength into growing children.
Give them Velva three times a _day_. They’ll say, “_Great_,” when
they eat it on your _flaky_ hot biscuits or on _waffles_ or
_batter cakes_.

I hope the unknown author of this little masterpiece will excuse my italics. The public simply will not see beauties that are not pushed under its nose. If the public could realize how much more difficult as well as more musical this style of writing, with its rich assonances and rhymes on _day_, _say_, _great_, _flaky_, _cakes_, is, than the insipid tinklings of the lyrists who feebly strum in pathetically threadbare metres through the pages of most magazines, then we would have a revolution in verse-writing. That we have not yet arrived at the revolution is proved by the fact that a talent of this order confines itself to writing syrup advertisements.

Take another case. The following appeared in a well known monthly. The editor doubtless looks on free verse as the rankest heresy:

A pipe, a maid,
A sheet of ice,
The glow of life—
And that glow doubled
By the glow of “Lady Strike”
Cuddling warm in the bowl;
This is the life
In the good old winter-time!

I do not say this is without faults. With the substance I have, naturally, nothing to do. But as regards form, which of your scribblers of cosmic bathos and “uplift stuff” could more cunningly weave _pipe_, _ice_, _life_, _strike_, and _time_ into a stanza that has half as much swing and verve, as this? Note also the absence of adjectives. In short, here is poetry with a “punch” to it.

My last example is the most ambitious of all. I present it exactly as it was written without comment. It appeared in _The North American Review_:

_Univernish_

Compared with old-method varnishes,
it is convenience and certainty.

It means one finishing varnish
for the job, instead of two or three.
It does away with the extra cans
and the extra cleanings of brushes.
It avoids mistakes and accidents.
It is safe and sure and fool-proof.
Compared with other new-method varnishes,
it is a vital improvement.

It is the new-method varnish
which does not thicken in the can
nor clog the painter’s brush.
It remains a clear, pure liquid.
It is easy working and free-flowing.
It requires vastly less labor.
It gives a smooth, clean finish
which is especially beautiful
and durable.
We think we are quite conservative
in saying that it saves twenty per cent
of the finishing cost.

Gentlemen of the poets’ profession, be ashamed of yourselves! How can you expect to find readers by lazily sticking to your antiquated formulas, when even the advertisement writers in the very magazines you do your work for, are getting quite up-to-date?

Extreme Unction

MARY ALDIS

CHARACTERS:

A DYING PROSTITUTE
A SOCIETY LADY
A SALVATION ARMY LASSIE
A DOCTOR
A NURSE

SCENE:

The screened space around a high narrow bed in a Hospital ward.
Record-card hanging above. The Screens have antiseptic white sheets
over them.

When the curtain rises the nurse is straightening and tucking in
with uncomfortable tightness the white counterpane of the bed. On
the bed, with eyes closed, lies what is left of a girl of 18 or
20. The nurse takes the thermometer from the girl’s mouth, looks
at it, shakes her head and makes a record note on the chart. She
gives the girl water to drink and leaves her with a final pull to
straighten the bed clothes. The girl tosses restlessly—moans a
little and impatiently kicks at and pulls the bed clothes out at the
foot, exclaiming “God, I wish they’d lemme ’lone!”

(The Lady enters)

THE LADY. Hattie dear, were you sleeping? No? See, I’ve brought you some roses. Aren’t they fresh and sweet? Shall I put them in water?

THE GIRL. I don’ want ’em!

THE LADY. All right dear. We’ll just put them aside. I know sometimes the perfume is too strong if one isn’t quite oneself. Shall I read to you?

THE GIRL. If you want to.

THE LADY. What shall I read?

THE GIRL. I don’ care.

THE LADY. A story perhaps?

THE GIRL. All right—Fire it off.

THE LADY. And then afterward, Hattie dear, perhaps if you’d let me, the twenty-third psalm. It’s so gentle and quiet! You might go to sleep—and when you awakened you’d hear those comforting words.

THE GIRL. Is that the one about the valley? God, but I’m sick of it! Gives me the jimmies. Got a story?

(THE LADY puts the flowers back in their box—takes off her wrap and
settles herself to read aloud from a magazine):

Marianna Lane swung back and forth, back and forth, in the
hammock, tapping her small, brown toe on the porch as she swung.
It was a charming porch, framed in clematis and woodbine, but
Marianna had no eye for its good points. She was lying with two
slim arms clasped behind her head, staring vacantly up at the
ceiling and composing a poem. On the wicker table beside her
stood a glass of malted milk and a teaspoon. They were not the
subject of the poem, but they were nevertheless responsible for
it. In the first place, Marianna would _not_ drink her
twelve-o’clock malted milk, and as she was forbidden to go off
the porch until she had done so, there seemed to be nothing
better to do than to cultivate the muse in the hammock. After
patiently sipping malted milk for eight years, Marianna had
suddenly rebelled. In the second place, her cousin Frank, who
lived in the next house, had been inspired by this beverage to
make up an insulting ditty.

“Grocerman, bring a can
Baby-food for Mary Ann!”

The girl listens for a moment with a faint show of interest, then
goes back to her restless tossing.

THE GIRL (interrupting). Say,—d’ye know I’m done for?

THE LADY. Oh no! You’re getting better every day.

THE GIRL. Oh quit it—I’m goin’! I tell ye. I’ve got a head piece on me, haven’t I? I can tell—they’ve stopped doin’ all them things to me. The doctor just sets down there where you are and looks at me—and say—he’s got gump that doctor. He’s the only one knows I know.

THE LADY. You mustn’t talk like that. I’m sure you’re going to get well (girl makes an angry snort). Now try and lie quiet. You mustn’t get excited, you know, it isn’t good for sick people. I’ll go on with the story. You’ll see. Now listen, will you, dear? It’s quite interesting. (Reads.)

“Grocerman, bring a can
Baby-food for Mary Ann!”

he sang loudly over the hedge whenever he caught sight of
Marianna’s middy blouse and yellow pigtails. That was yesterday.
To-day the malted milk was standing untouched upon the wicker
table, and Marianna in the hammock was trying to think up an
offensive rhyme for Frank. When she found it, she intended to go
around on the other side of the house and shout it as loud as
ever she could in the direction of her uncle’s garden. This, it
is true, was a tame revenge. What Marianna really wanted to do
was to go over and pinch her cousin Frank; but that, unhappily,
was out of the question, as Frank had a cold, and she was
strictly forbidden to go near anybody with a cold.[3]

THE GIRL (interrupting). Lady, where d’ you think you’re goin’ to when you kick it? Tell me!

THE LADY. Why—I don’t know—To Heaven, I hope—but you mustn’t—

THE GIRL. What makes you think you’re goin’ to Heaven?

THE LADY. Well—I think so because—well—because I’ve always tried to do right—no, no—I didn’t mean that exactly. Of course I’ve done millions of wrong things—but I mean—Oh Hattie dear, Heaven is such a vague term! All we know is that it is a beautiful place where we’ll be happy, and that we’re going there.

THE GIRL. How do you know we’re goin’?

THE LADY. I don’t know, I believe.

THE GIRL. But how do you know the wrong things you done won’t keep you out?

THE LADY. Now I’m afraid you’re exciting yourself—

THE GIRL. Oh Lord, cut that out! I’m excited all right, all right! Guess you’d be if you had the thoughts I got goin’ ’round in your head all the time—but there’s no sense talking them out. Nobody can’t do nothin’ for me now!

THE LADY. Oh you mustn’t say that!

THE GIRL. Well, can ye?

THE LADY. I’ll try if you will tell me what is troubling you.

THE GIRL. Oh Gawd! She wants to know what’s troubling me, she does!

THE LADY. Can’t you tell me? Perhaps I could help you.

THE GIRL. You said you done wrong things.—What was they?

THE LADY. I—I don’t know exactly.

THE GIRL. You don’t _know_?

THE LADY. Why I suppose I could think of lots of things but—

THE GIRL. She could “think of lots o’ things”! Has to stop to remember—O gee—guess she’ll get in.

THE LADY. Oh _please_ don’t laugh like that! Listen—Whatever you have done, no matter how dreadful, if you are sorry it will be all right—Don’t be afraid.

THE GIRL. Is that true?

THE LADY. Yes.

THE GIRL. I don’t believe it.

THE LADY. It is true nevertheless.

THE GIRL. Well, if you aint sorry?

THE LADY. But surely you are—You must be!

THE GIRL. No I aint. It was better dead.

THE LADY. What do you mean?

THE GIRL. I tell ye, it was better to be dead. Say, Lady—in them wrong things you done you _can’t remember_ did ye—did ye ever kill a kid that hadn’t hardly breathed—Say, did ye—did ye?

THE LADY. Oh, oh—What shall I do? Hattie! Hattie! Try and stop crying. I’m so grieved for you. Tell me what you wish—only don’t cry so!

THE GIRL. I aint sorry.

THE LADY. No, no, never mind that. Tell me if you want to, tell me—about it.

THE GIRL. An’ I aint sorry for what cum first—him—it was all I ever had; that time, that little weeny time!

THE LADY. Wait a moment—wouldn’t you rather have a clergyman?

THE GIRL. _No!_ There’s one comes ’round here. I don’ want to tell him nothin’.

THE LADY. Very well—go on.

THE GIRL. It was so little, and it squawked! It squawked awful!

THE LADY. Oh—don’t!

THE GIRL. You don’t want me to tell ye?

THE LADY. Yes, yes.

THE GIRL. Oh what’s the use? What’s the use? You can’t do nothin’. Nobody kin. I aint sorry! The kid’s better dead, lots better. It’s what cum after—I’m so dirty! I’m so dirty! I’ll never get clean! Oh, what’s gona happen when I die? What’s gona happen? An’ I gotta die soon!

THE LADY. You mustn’t feel so, you mustn’t! God is kind and good and merciful. He will forgive you—Ask Him to!

THE GIRL. I did ask Him to—lots o’ times. It don’ do no good. I aint sorry! Everybody says you gotta feel sorry, an’ I aint. A girl kid’s better dead, I tell ye! That’s why I done it. I loved it, ’fore it came, ’cause it was hisn. After I done it nothin’ mattered—nothin’! So I—And I gotta die soon—what’s gona happen?

(During the preceding the sound of a tambourine and singing has been
heard outside. As the girl cries out the last words, the Lady,
finding no answer, goes to the window. She has a sudden thought.)

THE LADY. I’ll be back in a moment! (She goes out.)

(Nothing is heard but the girl’s sobs for a moment. Then the Lady
ushers in a Salvation Army Lassie—her tambourine held tightly, but
jingling a little. She stands embarrassed by the foot of the bed.
The Girl stares at her.)

THE GIRL. I know them kind too.

THE LASSIE. Can’t I do something for you?

THE GIRL. No—not now—You’re a good sort enough—but—I aint sorry—I tell ye—I aint, I aint!

THE LASSIE (to Lady). What d’ye want me for? What’ll I do?

THE LADY. Couldn’t you sing something brave and cheerful? You were singing so nicely out there.

THE LASSIE (to Girl). Shall I?

THE GIRL. No—they won’t let ye. It ’ud make a noise.

THE LADY. Sing it low.

THE LASSIE. (In a sing-song voice—swaying, half chanting, half speaking:) “Shall we gather at the river—the beautiful, the beautiful river, etc.”

THE GIRL (after trying to listen for a stanza or two). Oh cut it out! I don’ want ye to sing to me—I want ye to tell me what’s gona happen. Oh, don’ nobody know? I’m so afraid—so ’fraid! (As her voice rises the nurse, who has, unobserved, looked in during the singing, enters with the doctor. He bows slightly to the Lady and the Lassie, then goes quickly to the girl, putting his hand on her forehead.)

THE DOCTOR. Why child—what troubles you?

THE GIRL (clinging to his hand). Doctor! Everybody says I got to be sorry to get in. I aint sorry, an’ I’m ’fraid, I’m ’fraid.

THE DOCTOR. To get in where?

THE GIRL. Heaven, where you’ll be happy.

THE DOCTOR. That is very interesting, how do you suppose they found that out? How do they know, I mean?

THE LADY. Doctor, I didn’t tell her that.

THE DOCTOR. Didn’t you? She seems strangely excited. (He seats himself by the bed.) Come child, let’s talk about it. (He motions—to the nurse that she is not needed. She goes out. The Salvation Army Lassie, makes an awkward little bow and gets herself out. The Lady stands at the foot of the bed listening for a few moments, then slips quietly out.)

THE DOCTOR. Now, tell me what is on your mind, but try and stop crying and speak plainly, for I want to understand what you say.

THE GIRL. I’m gona die, aint I?

THE DOCTOR. Yes.

THE GIRL. When?

THE DOCTOR. I don’t know.

THE GIRL. _Soon?_

THE DOCTOR. Yes.

THE GIRL. How soon? Tomorrow?

THE DOCTOR. No, not tomorrow. Perhaps in a month, perhaps longer.

THE GIRL. Will I get sorry ’fore I go?

THE DOCTOR. How can I tell? But what does it matter? Why do you want to be sorry especially? What good would it do? It is all passed, isn’t it? Nothing can change that.

THE GIRL. But I gotta be—to get in.

THE DOCTOR. You seem very sure on that point.

THE GIRL. But everybody says I gotta be.

THE DOCTOR. What is the use saying it or thinking it when nobody knows?

THE GIRL. What you sayin’?

THE DOCTOR. You and I can believe differently if we want to. But why in the world should you be asking me all these hard questions? I’ve never been to Heaven have I? I don’t know whether you have to be sorry to get in or not. How do you suppose _they_ found all that out?

THE GIRL. But aint I gotta be punished somewhere till I git sorry?

THE DOCTOR. Do you remember the other night when the pain was so bad?

THE GIRL. Yep.

THE DOCTOR. And I told you you would have to bear it, that I could do nothing for you, and that you must be quiet not to disturb the others?

THE GIRL. Oh, don’t I remember!

THE DOCTOR. I guess that’s about enough punishment for one little girl. You’ve been pretty unhappy lately, haven’t you, with the pain and the terrible thoughts? I think it’s about time something else turned up for you that would be nicer, don’t you?

THE GIRL. Turned up?

THE DOCTOR. Yes, something that would make up for all this. Do you know, child, as I’ve gone through these wards day after day ’tending to all you sick folks, I’ve about come to the conclusion that there must be—something nicer—

THE GIRL. Tell me more about it.

THE DOCTOR. Well now—there’s another queer question. Didn’t I tell you I don’t know anything to tell? I’ve never been there. I should think _you_ would have found out a _little_ something since you’re planning to go so soon. But no, I don’t suppose you know much more than the rest of us. And when you get there you will probably forget all about me and how much I’d like to know what’s happening to my little patient. No use I suppose asking you to tie a red string on your finger and say “that’s to send Dr. Carroll a little message.” Is there any way, do you think you could remember?

THE GIRL. You’re kiddin’ me!

THE DOCTOR. Indeed I am not. I long to know with all my heart, and I suppose it will be years and years before I do. Why just think, you, you are going to have a great adventure—You are going on a journey to a far country where you’ll find out lots of things, and here am I, jogging along up and down, to and fro, between my office and this hospital and wondering and wondering and wondering! What a lucky little girl you are!

THE GIRL. And I don’t have to be sorry—to get in?

THE DOCTOR. Didn’t I tell you you were going soon anyway? You can be sorry if you want to—but I think it is more interesting to dream about the strange things there will be to discover, at the end of the journey.

THE GIRL. Will there be gates of gold that open wide, and angels standin’ by with shinin’ wings?

THE DOCTOR. Wouldn’t you like to know? And so would I. You mustn’t forget to send that message, will you? Do be careful to be accurate and try to speak distinctly. You know that a great many wise men have promised to send messages back, yet all that seems to come are foolish words. If you will look at everything carefully and find a way of telling me, I’ll write it down for all the world to ponder. Oh—then we should really _know_ something—not just be groping—groping—groping in the dark. If you only could, if you only could! I wonder— (In his turn he gazes at her intently, then rises abruptly.) Well, child, I must go on. Shall I teach you a few questions before you go, so you’ll be sure and find out for me the most important things?

THE GIRL. Oh Doctor!

THE DOCTOR. You’d like to do something for me, wouldn’t you child?

(The girl reaches out for his hand and kisses it humbly, then gazes
at him.)

THE DOCTOR. Well, that would be the most wonderful thing in the world, only you must be very very careful and you must do a lot of thinking before you go, about what I’ve said. It is important to understand. Don’t waste any time thinking about what is passed, will you?

THE GIRL. No, Doctor.

THE DOCTOR. We must talk it all over. There aren’t many people I could trust to remember exactly all the things I want to know. But you can if you try hard. (He touches the bell, the nurse appears.) Now, Miss Bryant, Miss Hattie and I have several important things to discuss and there isn’t much time left, so if she wants me at any time call me and I’ll come. And I think while she has so much thinking on hand about what I’m asking her to do for me, she had better not see other visitors. You don’t mind, do you?

THE GIRL. No no! I don’ want ’em! Doctor, when will it come? Doctor, will I know soon?

THE DOCTOR. Soon I think—Very soon. (He takes her hand a second, then goes out, motioning the nurse to precede him.)

THE GIRL (raptly). Soon! He said it would be very soon—and I’m so tired! I’d like something nicer.

(She settles herself with a little sigh, and falls asleep.)

CURTAIN.

[3] From _The Century, March, 1914_.

The Schoolmaster

GEORGE BURMAN FOSTER

The history of the world has not known a greater movement than that which seized the hearts of men when the old culture was borne to its grave, _and a new fresh Spring-life,—the Christ-life_, as it came to be called,—of humanity, welled up from hidden and mysterious sources of power. In the commerce of thought diverse folk-spirits were cross-fertilized and bounds once held to be insurmountable were transcended as vision grew wider. Customs came to be more human. Man himself grew greater, deeper, freer. Man learned to practice virtues which hitherto he had hated as vices: mercifulness, meekness, peaceableness. Man prayed to a new God who made his sun to shine upon the evil and the good. He ever created sacreder names for his God. Taking his cue from the adorable will of this new God he framed ever more earnest and more sacred rules of life. These were radical and revolutionary novelties to the old culture, which speedily scented the dangers menacing it, and as speedily dispatched executioners to the rescue. In the language of its old theology, the language of St. Augustine, this was called the war of the Kingdom of the World against the Kingdom of God. Any well-informed scholar can recall what were said to be the hindrances which the Kingdom of God had at first to overcome, and how today these hindrances still offer the same resistance; degenerate paganism, with its powers of unbelief, and with its supremacy of the “flesh”; judaism, apostate from God, with its priests and scribes.

It is not within the scope of my task to inquire how far this traditional _schema_ of the upheavals at the tumultuous beginnings of our era coincide with the facts. Only one consideration concerns me at this time, and that one is not open to question: change as the phenomena of history may, the _laws_ of those phenomena remain ever the same. Accordingly, even the resistances which time’s new unfolding life has to surmount, ever return—usually under a changed name, indeed,—and they will continue to do so as long as there is a history of human culture in the life of the world.

Passing on, now, to speak of the forces which the most modern prophet of a new culture, _Friedrich Nietzsche_, looks upon as the most grievous hindrances to a _new kind of man_, we shall surely expect to see first of all, quite other faces than those which the pious fathers of the old church saw in the foes of the _civitas die_; still, we shall re-discover, significantly enough, many an old acquaintance behind the strange re-modeled mask. As in that old day, so in ours, we shall perceive in these foes of a new life, nothing of their hostility to life. In part, they appear quite harmless; in part, they are the universally dined and wined celebrities of the day at whom the masses stare as the special pioneers of our culture, and in whom the masses applaud the bearers and promoters of the best achievements of our culture. It would be certainly a very one-sided and unhistorical way of looking at things were we to hold those particular individuals, who did duty in the olden days in synagogues of the scribe’s learning, primarily responsible for the warfare which ancient Christianity had to sustain against the dominant religious parties, especially against the scribes and their followers. The war was not waged against _persons_, but against a _system_. The synagogue was the _school_ of the Jews; the scribes were the _masters_ in that school. Viewed from this side, Christianity seemed to be rebellion against the authority of the school, and an emancipation of humanity from the influence which the toasted masters of the school exercised over spirits.

Approaching the problem, then, as to how far such an emancipation would be serviceable today, one need scarcely say that one does not at all have in mind the institutions which, in a narrower sense, we now have come to call “schools.” As, for broad gauge philosophers, the concept priesthood is by no means identical with a definite office, the so-called clerical office, so what we understand by school and its masters, in Nietzsche’s sense, embraces a much wider circle than we are wont to think. There are schoolmasters in all vocations and callings and positions, not alone among scholars, but also among artists, politicians, laborers and merchants. We find them in the household and in the nursery; for schoolmaster-ism is a _certain kind of spirit_, and it is this kind of spirit which, under various names, Nietzsche pursues with his bitterest scorn and ridicule; which he stigmatizes as the most perilous hindrance in the path of the new culture.

We modern men must concede that Nietzsche is right at this point; that mastery on the part of “school” signifies decay, stuntedness, of the very human essence itself.

School gives _knowledge_. In all knowledge, man confronts nature. Man elaborates nature in his thoughts, and thus lifts himself _above_ nature. With his rules, he becomes master of nature. But, now, if a man abides in his school, a time comes, irremediably, when he is estranged from nature, estranged from life. His knowledge grows, indeed, his world of thought enlarges; but the “thoughts” which he calls his “knowledge” narrow and cramp him! The more he learns to work exclusively with his thoughts, the more he mislearns whence he derives his thoughts. He thinks about things, but he no longer finds his way into things, right into the innermost life of things. He thinks _after_, not _with_, not before. He thinks the alien, not his own. He knows names, not souls. Yes, life is so great, so infinite; and the school, our knowledge of life, is so paltry, so limited! Once man stood with his soul in this big wide world. Intimations of its abysses, unfathomable and awful, haunted him. Once man felt his hot cheeks fanned by the breezes of an eternal life of the world, by a divine breath that breathed and blew through the world. Once on some calm crest where mountain kissed sky, one of those blissful moments came over him when he felt himself so small, so great, so alone, so companioned,—inwardly seized by the miracle and mystery of life surrounding him, pervading him, at once bowing him down and lifting him up. Now all this is changed. Now he hears voices, loud, raucous, zealous, parading their wisdom as regards this august wealth of God. They speak, these voices, so wisely and cleverly, concerning that which no man’s wisdom and sagacity has ever plumbed. They out-trump each other with their oceanic learnedness. But once yet again let the soul take a deep breath, and cry, “I am a man, not a scholar. I dare to be a man, not a knower, the masters of the school smother and deaden me with their science of the sublime and free world of the deep and the divine and the eternal,”—let the soul that “thought” has kept from _seeing_ and _hearing_ and _feeling_, so cry, and how childish, how ridiculously petty, how weak and pathological, will all schoolmasterism come to seem!

Nature is also _Art_, genuine, true art. It is an inner nature, a soul-nature, a soul-life. This art-life which gushes forth like a spring from secret depths, this enraptures the heart glowing with Dionysiac enthusiasm, and steals over men like sweet images of a dream, which will not fade even from his waking soul. Then it sings in us in a wonderful way, in an unheard-of manner,—in jubilant bliss, aye, in heartbreaking lamentations, longing for death! Life smites the strings of our soul, life itself, and makes them resound in secret and hidden depths. It is this rich, overflowing life which mirrors all its colorful magnificence in the soul, and reveals to us its height and depth in dazzling light or midnight darkness.

But even here, here most of all perhaps, even out of this art men have made a “school” and a schoolmasterism. Men try to measure according to rules—measure what most of all mocks rules. Rules for poetry, rules for song, rules for color, for light and shade, rules for the creation (copying?) of pencil and brush and chisel and square, rules, rules, ever rules—until one would think that art was for the sake of the rules of the school, and not _vice versa_. There was a time—and for the matter of that, there still is—when the born master had a slim chance and short shrift among the “learned” masters. Who did not know a “school” by whose name he could proudly name himself, thus guaranteeing his art to be artistic; who beheld the world with his own free eyes, unfitted with spectacles by some one of the “masters”; who with listening soul eavesdropped life, asking never what was “written in the law” of art’s scribes and pharisees upon the subject, let him set his house in order, for he must die and not live, at least he must be cast out of the synagogue, excluded from the artists’ guild, he must expect the “masters” to pounce upon him—at least with the hoary weapons of obloquy and ridicule and ostracism and starvation—until all the joy has gone out of his life. _Vers libre_—did not, does not, the “master” antecedently and dogmatically know how “rotten” that is? Ah, but what if that attitude of the finishedness and finality of art, especially in its form, should replace art and artists with schools and scholars? Are we to have only “masters” of schools, or also _Masters_ who belong to no school, and who cannot be tagged as scholars of another “master.”

Nature, life, this is also _religion_, genuine, true religion at least. We have not created it in us yet—this overpowering longing and striving to surrender ourselves to another, a higher. To be sure, we have received it as a heritage from our mother. At first a flood of love and longing flowed through our souls from her eyes and heart. But her gift to us was in turn a gift to her. In that gift all love’s beams focused, gathered together, from all the ends of the earth and the eternities. In that gift all life was wedded to the waking spirit—all life, sleeping and dreaming, found its existence. And as this life awoke in us, we called it “inspiration,” we felt that a Stronger had come upon us, against which we could do nothing; we called it happiness, heart, love, God—the name was noise and sound—and yet it was all feeling, veiled in heavenly glow.

Then the name became everything. On this name scribes exercised their wits. They wrote it in their books and taught it in their schools. Then the schoolmasters became the lords of faith. What was once original life was now to be taught and learned—forgetting that while the psychology, or history, or philosophy of religion can be taught, _religion_ cannot be, any more than you can teach grass to grow, or flowers to bloom, or birds to sing, or lovers to love. So, religion came to be a thing of grades, like the “grades” of a school—the more grades, the more religion! At last the scholar in turn becomes a master! Verily, nowhere in the world has schoolmasterism done so much harm as in religion. No scoff of the scoffer, and no sword of the executioner, has dealt so deep and deadly wounds upon the religious life, as has the folly of the wise and the understanding who press their school knowledge and their school system upon men as religious faith, and so overspin the entrance to the garden of the heart with their spider-webs that no one can find the path any more to its bloom and fragrance.

To be sure, objections to all this bristle. Is not the blessing of the school—so this or that objector might urge—so manifest that, on account of the blessing, all its evils might be very well put up with? The school makes the unintelligible intelligible. The school widens the bed of the spiritual life, so that its stream no longer devastatingly overflows its banks. The school builds canals everywhere, that the watering of the land of the human may be as extensive as possible, and the spirit of life be universally fertilized with the achievements of civilization and culture. We may thank our schools that all the world today has learned to read and write. And, for him who can read and write, the way is open to all the treasures of the human spirit—and where is there a civilization that equals ours in the effort to provide schools corresponding to all the spheres of life? Ought we not to bless such effort, promote and support it, with all the means in our power?

Now, looking upon life more seriously and profoundly, we shall not be able to show that the censor of these schools is entirely in the wrong, when he declares that the spirit is perverted and corrupted by them. School is model, is a uniform of the spirit which all individuals are to don and wear. Hence as this school business spreads there is a dying-out of spiritual originality, a monotony of manufactured personality.

Everything that belongs to the average is best conserved by school. The most proper average man is always the best scholar. But all that is above or below the average—this is often the best in a man—decays and finds no nourishment. We have but to look at the whole state of our literature in this country, to see what has become of the art of writing, of authorship, in an age bursting with pride over everybody’s being able to read and write. All the nameless insipidity and thoughtlessness written and printed today, all the mendacity and perversity of feeling, which in novels find their way into hut and salon alike might be happily spared us did not everybody think he could read, and especially write! There is no denying it, a serious question stares at us in the name of the school today. This question is above all questions of school-reform, which seem so important to us, for the improved, nay, the best school remains just—school! And something of schoolmasterism and scholasticism cleaves to school! And therefore Nietzsche was its so bitter foe because he would have _men_, men who spoke and thought and felt powerfully and not as the scribes! Nietzsche was its foe because he would have among men, personalities, individualities, diversities, not uniformity and identity of spiritual life.

If, now, we have rightly comprehended the force of this censure against the school and its master, we are already in the way to overcome and to heal this school malady. The malady does not inhere in the school as such, but in the false evaluation which we of today attribute to it, and in the dominion which the school exercises over human spirits, by virtue of this false appraisal. We think we can read if we have learned to read in school. But this learning to read has yet to begin! Whoever does not begin it his own self, will never truly learn it at all. We call our schools educational institutions and yet they are altogether _imitational_ institutions, _after_ which the true human education first begins. We do not think of this, that this man whose knowledge still tastes of his school, whose art shows his school, is still stuck in his school, and has not made proper use of his school—which is to apply it; especially to overcome it! Or, rather we think still less! We rest on the laurels of our school, and if we won them we think that we have carried off the warrior’s prize of life. But it is _our_ fault, not the school’s, if the school narrows rather than broadens our vision; if it binds us to its rules instead of releasing us from them. Where are the men who still learn after school, nay, who first begin then to learn what after all is the main thing of all learning—how they can become greater, freer men, independent personalities? How does it come that all stirring and moving of the modern spirit is at the same time an insurrection against some kind of school? How does it come that all creative, path-breaking spirits can begin to create, to live, only when they have snapped the fetters of some school? And how does it come that great discoveries of unknown islands of the human have never been made within, but only without, the schools? Most of all, how does it come that a Christ can speak with power only when he has learned not to speak as the scribes and schoolmasters? The answer in every case is that we are accustomed to expect of the school what, according to its very nature, it cannot do, namely: to give life, to create life. Therefore, it is all-important that we keep the path open, wide open, to the fountain of life in the abyss of the human heart, in the unfathomableness of the world, so that we too may learn to speak with power and not as the scribes; so that our schools may not be diseases to be overcome, for many never overcome during an entire life—but a staff with which we may learn to walk until we shall need staff no more, because our feet have grown strong to bear us on our way during the brief years of our pilgrimage.

My Friend, the Incurable