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The billard player is the one modern touch in the book; for the rest Elskamp sails .... own sleeping, eating, entertaining or loving to knock at a door, walk on to a ...
THE LITTLE REVIEW

A MAGAZINE OF THE ARTS

MAKING

NO COMPROMISE

WITH

Seven Poems, by William Butler Yeats Poems and drawings by Jean de Bosschere

T H E PUBLIC

TASTE

THE LITTLE REVIEW

THE

M A G A Z I N E T H A T IS READ B Y T H O S E

WHO WRITE T H E OTHERS

OCTOBER,

Seven Poems De Bosschere's Prose Poems

1918

William Study of Elskamp

Poems Breviora Note

Yeats Pound Rodker

Jean de Bosschere Ezra Pound

upon

Ulysses,

Butler Ezra John

Fashions

Episode

in

Criticism

J. H. Le

VII.

Monier

James

Albert Mockel and "La Wallonie" The

Reader

Joyce E. P.

Critic Copyright, 1918, by Margaret Anderson

MARGARET EZRA JULES

ANDERSON,

POUND, ROMAINS,

Editor

London

Editor

French

Editor

Foreign office : 5 Holland Place Chambers, London 25c. a copy; $2.50 a year.

IV. 8.

English 1 2 / - a year.

Abonnement fr. 15 par an. Entered

as second-class matter at P.O., New York, N. Y., under the act March 3, 1879. Published monthly by Margaret Anderson

T H E LITTLE REVIEW

Vol. V.

OCTOBER 1918 SEVEN William

To

a

POEMS



No

Butler Yeats

Young

Girl

M y dear, my dear, I know More than another What makes your heart beat so; Not even your own mother

Can know it as I know,

Who broke m y heart for her When the wild thought, T h a t she denies And has forgot,

Set all her blood astir

And glittered in her eyes.

A

Song

I thought no more was needed Youth to prolong T h a n dumb bell and foil T o keep the body young.

Oh who could have foretold

T h a t the heart grows old? Though I have many words

W h a t woman's satisfied?

I am no longer faint

Because at her side.

Oh who could have foretold

T h a t the heart grows old?



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I have not lost desire B u t the heart that I had, I thought 'twould burn m y body Laid on the death bed. But who could have foretold That the heart grows old?

Solomon

to

Sheba

Sang Solomon to Sheba A n d kissed her dusky face, A l l day long from midday We have talked in the one place, A l l day long from shadowless noon We have gone round and round In the narrow theme of love L i k e an old horse i n a pound. T o Solomon sang Sheba Planted on his knees, If you had broached a matter That might the learned please, Y o u had before the sun had thrown Our shadows on the ground Discovered that my thoughts, not it, Are but a narrow pound. Sang Solomon to Sheba A n d kissed her Arab eyes, There's not a man or woman Born under the skies Dare match in learning with us two, A n d a l l day long we have found There's not a thing but love can make The world a narrow pound.

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Living

Beauty

I'll say and maybe dream I have drawn content,

Seeing that time has frozen up the blood

T h e wick of youth being burned and. the oil spent,

From beauty that is cast out of a mould

In bronze, or that in dazzling marble appears,

Appears, and when we have gone is gone again,

Being more indifferent to our solitude

Than 'twere an apparition. 0 heart we are old :

T h e living beauty is for younger men

We cannot pay its tribute of wild tears.

Under

the

Round

Tower

"Although I'd lie lapped up in linen

A deal I'd sweat and little earn

If I should live as lives the neighbours"

Cried the beggar, Billy Bryne.

"Stretch bones till the daylight come

On great-grandfather's battered tomb."

Upon a grey old battered tombstone

In Glendalough beside the stream,

Where the O'Bryrnes and Byrnes are buried,

He stretched his bones and fell in a dream

Of sun and moon that a good hour

Bellowed and pranced in the round tower.

Of golden king and silver lady

Bellowing up and bellowing round

Till toes mastered a sweet measure

Mouth mastered a sweet sound;

Prancing round and prancing up

Until they pranced upon the top.

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T h a t golden king and that wild lady

Sang till stars began to fade

Hands gripped in hands, toes close together,

Hairs spread on the wind they made ;

T h a t lady and that golden king

Could like a brace of blackbirds sing.

"It's certain that m y luck is broken"

T h a t rambling jailbird Billy said,

"Before nightfall I'll pick a pocket

And snug it in a feather bed.

I cannot find the peace of home

On great grandfather's battered tomb."

March

1918.

Tom

O'

Roughley

"Though logic choppers rule the town,

And every man and maid and boy

Has marked a distant object down,

A n aimless joy is a pure j o y , "

Or so did T o m O'Roughley say

T h a t saw the surges running by,

" A n d wisdom is a butterfly

And not a gloomy bird of prey.

"If little planned is little sinned

But little need the grave distress.

W h a t ' s dying but a second wind?

H o w but in zig-zag wantoness

Could trumpeter Michael be so brave"?

Or something of that sort he said.

" A n d if my dearest friend were dead

I'd dance a measure on his grave.."

February

16, 1918.

A

Prayer

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Review

into

5

my

House

God grant a blessing on this tower and cottage And on my heirs, if all remain unspoiled, N o table, or chair or stool not simple enough For shepherd lads in Galilee ; and grant T h a t I myself for portions of the year M a y handle nothing and set eyes on nothing B u t what the great and passionate have used Throughout so many varying centuries W e take it for the norm ; yet should I dream Sinbad the sailor's brought a painted chest, Or image, from beyond the Loadstone Mountain That dream is a norm; and should some limb of the devil Destroy the view b y cutting down an ash T h a t shades the road, or setting up a cottage Planned in a government office, shorten his life, Manacle his soul upon the Red Sea bottom.

DE

BOSSCHERE'S STUDY OF

ELSKAMP*

Ezra Pound

I

C O N F E S S E D in my February essay my inability to make any­ thing of M a x Elskamp's poetry, and I have tacitly confessed my inability to find any formula for hawking D e Bosschère's own verse to any public of my aquaintance; D e Bosschère's study of Els­ kamp, however, requires no advocacy; I do not think it even requires to be a study of M a x Elskamp; it drifts as quiet canal water ; the protagonist may or not be a real man. "Ici, la solitude est plus acentuée: souvent, pendant de longues minutes, les rues sont désertes. . . . Les portes ne semblent pas, ainsi que dans les grandes villes, s'ouvrir sur un poumon de vie, et être une cellule vivante de la rue. Au contraire, toutes sont fermées. Aussi bien, les façades de ce quartier sont pareilles aux murs borgnes. Un mince ruban de ciel roux et gris, à peine bleu au printemps, dé­ * "Max Elskamp"; essai par Jean De Bosschère, de l'Occident, 17 rue Eblé, Paris, fr. 3.50.

Bibliothèque

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coupe les pignons, se tend sur le marché désert et sur le puits pro­ fond des cours." From this Antwerp, D e Bosschère derives his subject, as Gau­ tier his "Albertus" from Un vieux bourg flamand tel que peint Tèniers; trees bathing in water. "Son univers était limité par: 'le grand peuplier'; une statue de Pomone, 'le grand rocher', et 'là grand greniuille'; ceci était un coin touffu où il y avait de l'eau et où il ne vit jamais qu'une seule grenouille, qu'il croyait immortelle". D e Bosschère's next vision of Elskamp is when his subject is pointed out as "le poète décadent", for no apparent reason save that he read Mallarmé at a time when Antwerp did not. T h e study breaks into a cheerful grin when Els­ kamp tells of Mallarmé's one appearance in the sea-port: " L e bruit et les cris qui furent poussés pendant la conférence de Mallarmé, l'arrêtèrent plusieurs fois. L'opinion du public sur sa causerie est contenue en ces quelques mots, dits par un général re­ traité, grand joueur de billard, et qui du reste ne fit qu'une courte absence de la salle de jeu, pour écouter quelques phrases du poète. 'Cet homme est îvre ou fou', dit il fort haut, en quittant la salle, où son jugement fit loi. Anvers, malgré un léger masque de snob­ isme, qui pourrait tromper, n'a pas changé depuis. Mallarmé, même pour les a vertis, est toujours l'homme îvre ou fou." T h e billard player is the one modern touch in the book; for the rest Elskamp sails with sea-captains, apparently in sailing ships to Constantinople, or perhaps one should call it Byzantium. He reads Juan de la Cruz and Young's Night Thoughts, and volumes of de¬ monology, in the properly dim library of his maternal grandfather, " S a passion en rhétorique fut pour Longfellow, il traduisait "Song of (sic) Hiawatots. ' " T h e further one penetrates into D e Bosschère's delightful nar­ rative the less real is the hero; the less he needs to be real. A phan­ tom has been called out of D e Foe's period, delightful phantom, tak­ ing on the reality of the fictitious; in the end the author has created a charming figure, but I am as far as ever from making head or tail of the verses attributed to this creation. I have had a few hours' delightful reading, I have loitered along slow canals, behind a small window sits Elskamp doing something I do not in the least under­ stand.

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II So was I at the end of the first division "Sur la V i e " de M a x Elskamp. T h e second division, concerned with "Oeuvre et V i e " , but raised again the questions that had faced me in reading Elskamp's printed work. He has an undercurrent, an element everywhere pres­ D e Bos­ ent, differentiating his poems from other men's p o e m s . schere scarcely helps me to name it. T h e third division of the book, at first reading, nearly quenched the curiosity and the interest aroused b y the first two thirds. On second reading I thought better of it. Elskamp, plunged in the middle ages, in what seems almost an atrophy, as much as an atavism, became a little more plausible. (For what is it worth, I read the chapter upon a day of almost complete exhaustion). "Or, quand la vision lâche comme une proie vidée le saint, il demeure avec les hommes." "Entre le voyant et ceux qui le sanctifient il y a un précipice insondable. Seul l'individu est béatifié par sa croyance; mais il ne peut l'utiliser au temporel ni la partager avec les hommes, et c'est peut-être la forme uni­ que de la justice sur terre." T h e two sentences give us perhaps the tone of D e Bosschère's critique "Sur le Mysticisme" of Elskamp. It is however not in D e Bosschére, but in La Wallonie that I found the clue to this author :

Consolatrice

des

Affliges

Et l'hiver m'a donné la main, J'ai la main d'Hiver dans les mains, et dans ma tête, a u loin, il brûle

les vieux étés de canicule;

et dans mes yeux, en candeurs lentes, très blanchement il fait des tentes, dans mes yeux il fait des Sicile,

puis des îles, encore des îles.

E t c'est tout un voyage en rond

trop vite pour la guérison

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à tous les pays où l'on meurt au long cours des mers et des heures; et c'est tout un voyage au vent sur les vaisseaux de mes lits blancs qui houlent avec des étoiles

à l'entour de toutes les voiles.

or j ' a i le goût de mer aux lèvres

comme une rancoeur de genièvre

bu pour la très mauvaise orgie

des départs dans les tabagies;

puis ce pays encore me vient:

un pays de neiges sans fin. . . .

Marie des bonnes couvertures,

faites-y la neige moins dure

et courir moins comme des lières mes mains sur mes draps blancs de fièvre. — Max Elskamp in "La Wallonie",

1892.

T h e poem appears in V a n Bever and Léautaud's anthology and there may be no reason for my not having thence received it; but there is, for all that, a certain value in finding a man among his na­ tive surroundings, and in finding Elskamp at home, among his con­ temporaries, I gained first the advantage of comprehension.

Little

PROSE John

Review

POEMS Rodker

Theseus

W

H E N the brass door of the labyrinth clanged behind him he was in darkness. T h e noise reverberated in his ears and grew fainter, like an omen called from hill-top to hill-top till it died ten thousand miles into the heart of a continent. H e waited for the last echo to fade; for the hollow sound lay about him like a wild beast's eyes. B u t however faint and ultimate the hullo-ing grew, always further and fainter and more ominous, another echo woke. H e waited an eternity. T h e last remote vibration d i e d . He put one foot forward: stealthily and so faintly that an effort to strain his ears to catch the sound, seemed to burst a blood-vessel deep in his brain; another echo awoke. He could not stand it. " H a i a " he shouted into the dark, " H a i a " : determined to kill forever that globular and staring echo. T h e sound went crashing along the dark galleries, and came spitting and crashing back to him like thunder, and ready to bring the walls down about him. He was afraid and lifted his shield above his head. "Mother", he cried, instinctively. He began to go forward. His feet made no sound: he could see nothing. When he touched the wall he drew his hand away : it was wet and slimy and felt like a snake's skin. Sometimes he turned right-angles, following the walls. It did not matter. He tried not to think of the approaching encounter, so that he might reserve his strength, but in its place he only saw Ariadne whom he hated. H e tried to think of the girl he had left behind, but her face had grown vague and her eyes ghostly. Still he marched on. A t first he had walked warily, dreading surprise at each moment, but as he saw that the corridors were only a man's breadth he regained confidence. H e walked till each step had become automatic. H e had for­ gotten whether he walked or not. Only if he stopped could he know, but. this did not occur to him. A sudden turn brought him up sharp, and he stopped. T h e muscles of his legs and calves began to twitch spasmodically and with excruciating pain. H e was forced to go on.

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Still the dark held, and though he strained his eyes to see what lay before him, he only saw lines of white fire darting across his sight, and these burst with a little splatter when they reached the edge of his retina. A t first he thought he was seeing light: then he knew that the gods were laughing at him. H e saw pale outlines of a stomach appear o n the dark before him, and it was like a drawing on a slate. H e knew b y that he was hungry. His bowels began to gripe, caling for food, and the peristalt drew for him a figure 8, with the long axis lying horizontal. The motion of each foot as it touched ground translated itself into a circle of fire, flashing first on one side of his brain and then on the other. H e did not know if he walked or not. H e felt his eyes bursting from his head. Purkinje's figures danced before him, making a pink h a z e . There was a little tug behind him — and a cord snapped.

Dancer Gyroscope hums immutably through buttocks — threatens and terrifies — pervading obscure oscillation. A world set into motion, uncontrollable. But in opposite direction and actually and with a more furious obscurity of oscillation hips burn with more febrile and human life. T h e n the shoulders — and, moving down like a snake, the ribs prepare for action. Furiously the head gyrates, veers — a synthetic five moon of Saturn. Thighs and legs are pivotted on quicksilver — they cannot give — head and buttocks dangle from Sirius. Buttocks sway alternately — a floating pier — one is terrified lest they break away, continue their ponderous flight, through a space where there is no darkness, for we are atoms glued to their axes. Neck and head joggle like five mad moons in steel blue. But from the bulb one yellow shaft swerves out — blinding. T h e ma­ chine clanks — shivers on quicksilver, a surface cut to files by winds denser than metals — but the gravid beauty totters, then stands, for quintessential concentrations jab one from the heel. T h e trunk twists like a reed upon the sinister lake of dynamism

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made by buttocks — yet revolves about them. From each heel the marvellous upthrust makes the buttocks topple from o n e side of the strut to the other. Machine accreted from birth, oiled much. Such a belly—tight like a drum. One hundred rotations in as many planes. Buttocks strutted recklessly, firm against quicksilver, heeling, terribly immutable. Trunk wavers and twists. And on an agate edge the head turns wildly with its blurred wings of ears, emitting its shrill blue and bright bulbray.

God T h e Dramatist sat working. He saw his hero young, hand­ some, and gifted with valuable gifts. He saw him married, weighed He saw him down by life (it was a Tragedy, "bien entendu"). finally overcome. He grew sad when he thought of his hero, some­ times even wept. Often he said to himself: " T h e r e , but for the grace of God, goes . . " Then the play was staged and was an instant success. Touring companies were sent out, translations made. T h e play was per­ formed in every capital in Europe. But the Dramatist had forgot­ ten the old play, for he was working on another. And every night while the Dramatist slept, ate, entertained, loved: at eight o'clock precisely a certain theatre in London would be filled with beautiful women in beautiful wraps, virile men in evening dress, shop girls and clerks in the gallery. A t 8.10 his hero would walk on the stage, take off his "gibus" with verve and develop his part. T h e heroine would fling herself into his arms, threaten sui­ cide; in short be adorable. T h e whole long play would be gone through, word for word as it had been written, with exactly the right curve of wrist for holding a cigarette. T o the Dramatist, when he thought about it, these were people he had met vaguely at dinner. On the Continent at varying times the same scene was enacted, T h e same sort of theatre was filled with the same sort of people who were shown the play exactly as i f had been written, word for word. Another replica of the hero; an identical heroine: angry,

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sobbing, despairing. T h e same emotions evoked all over the world. And every evening, while the author of their being slept, ate, loved or entertained; somewhere a thousand miles away a beau­ tiful, straight and immaculate hero would suddenly break off his own sleeping, eating, entertaining or loving to knock at a door, walk on to a stage, throw his "gibus" on to a divan, and pull up his trousers a little at the knee before he knelt to make his grand dec­ laration of passion. Every evening, a hundred similar heroes and heroines all over the world. It was like an action that, once done, goes careering through space forever and forever. But the Dramatist was working on a new play. He had for­ gotten what his old play was about. H e even repeated one of the scenes, with a difference. T h e a t r e

M u e t

T h e curtain is raised upon Autumn and closely interwoven trees. Dead leaves in profusion. Behind is seen a long field with stocks of corn which mist is clotting. Behind — mountains. Curtain drops. T h e curtain is raised again and a woman is standing beneath the trees, half in shadow. It is the first phase of twilight. Evidently she is waiting. T h e mist grows denser and gradually envelopes the trees so that the woman is blotted out. T h e trees multiply rapidly; she is in a dense thicket (clearing disappears) ; the mist rises. Steps are heard in the leaves — the trees dwindle; they be­ come bushes. T h e sky grows darker but clearer — the evening star ascends. A man — and she rushes to meet him. Everything quickly blots out in curtain of black and yellow with spots and streaks that whirl excentrically as they embrace. T h i s disappears as they draw apart. T r e e s gradually climb higher again and while they regard each other the landscape resumes its appearance as at the opening of the scene. T h e y approach and seize each other. T h e swirl of colour

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again appears but with the original landscape diminished upon it. T h e y separate. T h e y have become colossal in comparison with what is around them, but gradually as they are sucked into it the trees resume their normal size, the mist creeps out thickly. It grows darker with more stars. T h e time for parting ap­ proaches. T h e trees grow higher and higher, become a thick forest, very cold. T h e mist threads the trunks milkily. It is evident he must go. T h e y embrace, and for a moment the trees seem to dwindle and then shoot up terrifically engulfing her. She cowers. Rustling of leaves, — his receding footsteps.

After Hafiz Iris Barry



D a w n seemed so slow in coming

the earliest hour of morning drove me to the garden

as mad as a nightingale for the comfort of the roses.

M y rose loomed through the dusk

like a red lam of loveliness:

proud of her youth:

careless of the notes of her lovers the birds:

at her feet

the tulip's heart was stained with stripes of passion

and the narcissus dropped tears of e n v y from her dark eyes.

I cried to m y rose: "Laila! I too would be tranquil as your sweet silken robe Might I like it enfold y o u . " Alas!

H e r breast and shoulder, her breast and shoulder have quite ruined m y heart. I ask of the nightingales what remedy for a poor lover? Altogether they sing sadly "Her sweet mouth, her desired mouth! "

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POEMS Jean de Bosschere Dear! Pourquoi est-tu dans Little Russell street, Et pourquoi me parles-tu, Dear? T u es venue de Pise, Par M i l a n ou tu fus initiée. Pourquoi me parles-tu le mauvais anglais Que je te réponds? Et pourquoi n'est-tu pas à quatre pattes, Sans cette poignée de boutons et d'agraffes, Et dix mètres de ruban? Toutes ces choses nouées sur l'ombilic Me rendent avide dans l'Assyrie du British. Plus bête dans ton jupon vert, jaune et bleu, Mais splendide et baroque! Et c'est la volupté! Avec tes pantalons noirs moulés, Et ton sein comme un oeuf que pond ton corset rose, Pourquoi me dis-tu des choses trop idiotes? En parlant l'anglais par l'italien à un Français? Avance a quatre pattes, petit ivoire bête, T u seras magique, Avec tes cuisses un peu roses, Mais bleu-rose et de satin violet Entre le genou et la tignasse de Venus, Pourquoi m'as-tu parlé en anglais cassé, Dear, dans Little Russell street, Si, maintenant vides,— T o i , grotesque, Moi burlesquement lucide,— T u ne peux pas grimper à quatres pattes? Réponds, animal, Et ne te fie plus à ton art trop antique!

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Momie A u Bodéga une momie cherche son amant.

Elle est faite de creux,

U n squelette vide.

Des trous sombres pour le ventre et pour les yeux;

Les joues limées à l'ocre;

Des sillons obscurs de l'œil à la bouche plus noire;

Sous le c o u la robe courbe dans l'illiaque,

E t penche vers les pieds.

Elle s'est brulée dans les pensées d'amour;

Elle est faite de larmes et de bitume.

D a n s sa chambre des rubans et des fleurs

pour L u i !

Quant à elle, le feu dévore tout cela.

Les fleurs fanent à son souffle;

Les rubans sont pour d'autres,

Blondes et bleues, moins furieuses.

Quant à elle.

Sous le cuir jaune d'amour et de pleurs,

Elle est rouge et brune.

D a n s sa cuvette une chemise est trempée;

L'odeur des ambres plane dans sa chambre;

E t de la poussière fait armure aux meubles.

E t toujours son coeur se rétrécit,

Pole ardent dans le feu qui la mange.

D u fond des yeux elle cherche l'amant,

Et, courbée un peu,

Jaune dans le drap vert,

Elle regarde par le guichet de la porte d'acajou:

Oeil d'or du hareng violet et bleu,

Aux fentes des caques disjointes.

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Silence Avec d'autres masques, L a lie prend du thé; Loin, je n'entends point ces mouettes travesties, N i aucun autre bruit de mauvaise poulie. Alors ce soir, Harpocratès est venu me vistiter. Il a bien tardé, j ' a i tout empoisonné, Donnant de la flamme aux racines, D e la flame aux fleurs, Aux coeurs triangulaires des femmes. Harpocratès tu viens trop tard, Mais je te comprends, Dieu demeuré dans le brouillard. Vous me regardez, Grec divin, E t même votre regard ne dit rien. Dis-moi l'honneur sombre-t-il dans le silence? Il ne dit rien. Une fois, Lalie prenait du thé,—Harpocratès écoutait un chevalier,—— Harpocratès sans mot dire, Riait comme tous les Dieux.

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Le

Chien

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Domestique

Castor le braque de Pollux est mort. "Ils s'aimaient" D i t quelqu'un, mais c'est un homme dont la logique est toute petite Dans la pivoine blanche de la cervelle. S'aimaient-ils,

L e chien et l'homme?

Lui baissait le nez nu et blanc,

L'autre levait le museau de glue noire:

Entente avec télégraphie,

Même pendant la station aux arbres.

Ce langage du nez blanc

E t du nez noir

M'écorchait tout vivant.

A table, les odeurs,

Celle de l'homme et celle du braque

Appelaient dans les viandes et les sauces,

N o n pas le poivre cavalier,

N i le sel au froid d'aurore,

M a i s le fumet de la truie grecque,

E t des Hybrides:

Métamorphoses;

Ragoût de petits vices simplistes;

Enfin, l'insoutenable chien domestique.

D e plus, l'un d'eux Pollux,

Tenait l'autre attaché:

Petite chaîne de cuir jaune,

Et, dans le mystère,

Il y avait peut-être des liens de fer.

Castor est mort.

Pollux, ô Pollux, petit enfant

D e cinquante ans!

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Sa femme console le survivant

Remue ses babouches,

Fait geindre le fauteuil,

Se rappelle, pitoyable, dans la cervelle,

Dans le crâne étroit de Pollux,

Par vingt bruits familiers,

Y compris sa toux courte.

Mais Pollux pique la terre

D u nez froid et innocent, nu.

Or moi, chrétien ancien,

Et qui connaît maintes a m o u r s ,

Et la peine de la solitude,

Peine dans l'homme qui tremble

Au bain glacé, ici, Hô ici, certes!

Or moi pieux,

J'ai choisi ma plus rousse poule,

Poule que renard ne mangerait,

— T r o p belle en vérité,—

Que ni Rothchild ni Rothmaler affamés

N'oseraient manger,

Poule à peindre sur enseigne, or,

Et tête rouge, oeil de sable rose.

Elle me regarde comme la fleur épiaiae

J'ai envoyé ma poule d'or à Pollux.

D é j à elle picorait le grain dans ma main.

C'est une poule domestique.

Et j ' y ajoutai une laisse, un cordon de soies

Promenades !

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BREVIORA Ezra

Pound

P

O E T R Y is the statement of overwhelming emotional values all the rest is an affair of cuisine, of art. On n'émeut que par la clarté. Stendhal is right in that clause. He was right in his argument for prose, but Poetry also aims at giving a feeling precisely evaluated.

Satire is the expression of disgust with false evaluations.

A passage is "poetic or "unpoetic" in two respects:

(a) the degree in which the emotional element inheres. (b) the justness of the evaluation. It is good or bad poetry according to the quality of the expression. Sentimentality, sob-stuff: false statement of values. Good art is expression of emotional values which do n o t give way to the intellect. B a d art is merely an assertion of emotion, which intellect, common-sense, knocks into a cocked hat. Wordsworth, emotion almost null, emotional element scarcely present, and evaluation largely humbug. Milton, barroque. Dante: Era già l'ora che volge il desio. Victorians, Tennyson, Browning, Swinburne, all given to "lay­ ing it o n " in one w a y or another; not but what there are sound things in both Swinburne and Browning. Kipling, a mere exagger­ ration of Victoriania, banjo rendering of the Browno-Swinburnian compost. T h e better tradition of English: "Seafarer", lines in the "Wanderer", parts of Lay¬ aman, Chaucer, Gavin Douglas, Golding, Marlowe (translations as well as original w o r k ) , William Shakespeare (as certain other critics have noted), Ballads and Elizabethan songs (rigoroulsy se­ lected), Wyatt, Donne, Waller, Herrick, later a few catches of Dorset and Rochester, Crabbe, L a n d o r (selected and sifted). In Latin: Catullus, of the most poignant poets. Horace, complicated proposition, to b e dealt with elsewhere.

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Ovid, particularization, sense of the Gods, very great poet, underestimated during the last 150 or 200 years, perhaps under­ estimated ever since the renaissance. Propertius, quality (more anon). Gallus, t o o little honoured. Martial, valuable for his opposition t o the rhetoricans. This importance not understood until one realizes that he was in such opposition; similiar situation now, literati v s . journalism. " T h e rhetoricians ruined the empire." T h e rhetoricians amylowellized Cicero.

NOTE

UPON

FASHIONS

IN CRITICISM

J. H. Le Monier

A

P R È S une visite de plusieurs mois en Amérique où j'avais ac­ cepté un poste de professeur dans une des universités du Centre-Ouest, et après avoir assisté à nombre de conférences dans les réunions des différents "Discussion Circles"; j e remarquai chez l'Américain cultivé un curieux enthousiasme superficiel à recuellir des informations sur l a chose du moment, e n même temps qu'une également curieuse et fondamentale répugnance à comprende aucune nouveauté ayant trait à autre chose. Je suis donc peut-être mieux à même de juger que la plupart des autres Français des difficultés qui ont du assillir la "Little R e v i e w " en présentant à son public le numéro français. L'accueil qui fut fait à ce numéro par d'autres revues, soit-disant modernes, fut, i l me semble, inutilement grossier. "Poetry", magazine qui s'intitule fièrement " L a plus vivante expression de c e t art" (poésie), me parait dans u n article " O u r Contemporaries" superlativement inexacte. " T h e anthology fever has not hit the French publishers quite as it has the American." " L e fieire des anthologies n'a pas frappé les éditeurs français tout à fait aussi rudement que les Americans. Je ne sais trop s'ils en sont frappés tout-a-fait aussi rudement que les Américains, mais à coup sur, il y a un nombre respectable d'anthologies en France. 2. Monsieur S. W . dit que le commentaire de Monsieur P. est

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toujours contradictoire. C e commentaire contredit peut-être en effet le goût courant de l'Université de l'IIinois, o u de Chitauqua, et très certainement le goût de Monsieur S. W., mais il ne se contre­ dit lui-même e n aucune manière; il est, en fait, parfaitement cohé­ rent. 3. Monsieur S. W . nous announce que B r y o n et Alfred d e Musset furent à portée de voix, à "Shouting distance" l'un de l'autre. "Shouting distance" est plaisant! Leur période fut sans doute plus impétueuse q u e la nôtre; ils furent tous deux de vagues romantistes se souciant peu de la technique de leurs vers. I l n ' y a pourtant dans Musset rien qui ressemble à D o n Juan. 4. Swinburne a e u beau admirer Gautier: seul un lecteur sans discernement parlera de proche parenté entre l'oeuvre de c e s deux hommes. 5. Monsieur S. W . dit que Monsieur P . choisit des poèmes qui n'auraient jamais tenté le traducteur. Traducteur dans ce cas, signi­ fie évidemment Monsieur S. W . 6. Il déclare que le choix des poètes fait par Monsieur P . est une liste dressée au hazard. L a fausseté de ce jugement peut être démontrée par quiconque voudra bien se donner l a peine d'observer que Monsieur P. fournit toujours des raisons spécifiques pour traiter chacun des poètes qu'il inclut. 7. Voici d'ailleurs q u i peut servir comme échantillon d e l'in­ exactitude secondaire caractéristique des mauvais journalistes qui pullulent également en France, en Angelterre et en Amérique. I l cite Monsieur P . et lui fait dire: "Nous avons ( W e have) beau­ coup de parnassiens". Si Monsieur P . avait dit cela, il aurait, c e me semble, fait erreur, si je puis m'en rapporter à la poésie contem­ poraine d'Amérique que j ' a i lue. M a i s voici textuellement c e que Monsieur P . a dit: "L'Amérique a eu (Has had) suffisemment de parnassiens, peut être de second ordre, mais pourtant sufnsemment. Monsieur S. W . conclut en faisant remarquer que Monsieur P . insiste sur u n point, à savoir: qu'il y a des mauvais poètes en Fran­ çais aussi bien qu'en Anglais. Monsieur P . constate légèrement. Faut-il insister? M

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ULYSSES James

Joyce

Episode

G

VII.

R O S S B O O T E D draymen rolled barrels dullhudding out of Prince's stores and bumped them up on the brewery float. Grossbooted draymen rolled barrels dullthudding out of Prince's stores and bumped them up on the brewery float. — There it is, John Murray said. Alexander K e y e s . — Just cut it out, will you? M r . Bloom said, and I'll take it round to the Telegraph office. — T h e door of Ruttledge's office creaked again. John Murray's long shears sliced out the advertisement from the newspaper in four clean strokes. — I'll go through the printing works, M r . Bloom said, taking the cut square. — O f course, if he wants a par, John Murray said earnestly, we can do him one. — Right, M r . Bloom said with a nod. I'll rub that i n . We. John Murray touched M r . Bloom's arm with the shears and whispered: -- Brayden. M r . Bloom turned and saw the liveried porter raise his lettered cap as a stately figure entered from Prince's street. Dullthudding Guinness's barrels. It passed statelily up the stair case, steered by an umbrella, a solemn beardframed face. T h e broadcloth back ascended each step: back. All his brains are in the nape of his neck, Simon Dedalus says. F a t folds of neck, fat, neck, fat, neck. —- Don't y o u think his face is like Our Saviour? John Murray whispered. T h e door of Ruttledge's office whispered: ee: cree. Our Saviour: beardframed oval face: talking in the dusk. Mary, Martha. Steered b y an umbrella sword to the footlights: Mario the tenor. — Or like Mario, M r . Bloom said. — Y e s , John Murray agreed. B u t Mario was said to be the

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picture of Our Saviour. Jesusmario with rougy cheeks, doublet and spindle legs. Hand on his heart. In Martha. Co-ome thou lost one, Co-ome thou dear one! — His grace phoned down twice this morning, John M u r r a y said gravely. T h e y watched the knees, legs, boots vanish Neck. Mr. Bloom said slowly: — Well, he is one of our saviours also. A meek smile accompanied him as he lifted the counter-flap, as he passed in through the sidedoor and along the warm dark stairs and passage, along the now reverberating boards. T h u m p ­ ing, thumping. He pushed in the glass swingdoor and entered, stepping over strewn packing paper. Through a lane of clanking drums he made his way towards Nannetti's reading closet. Hynes here too: account of the funeral probably. T h u m p ­ ing thump. T h i s morning the remains of the late Mr. Patrick Dignam. Machines. His machineries are pegging a w a y too. Like these, got out of hand: fermenting. W o r k i n g away, tearing away. And that old grey rat tearing to get in. Mr. Bloom halted behind the foreman's spare body, admiring the glossy crown. Strange he never saw his real country. Ireland m y c o u n t r y . Member for College green. He ran that workaday worker tack for all it was worth. T h e machines clanked in threefour time. Thump, thump, thump. N o w if he got paralysed there and no-one knew how to stop them they'd clank on and on the same, print it over and over and up and back. Monkeydoodle the whole thing. W a n t a cool head. -— Well, get it into the evening edition, councillor, Hynes said. Soon be calling him my lord mayor. L o n g John is backing him they say. T h e foreman, without answering, scribbled press on a corner of the sheet and made a sign to a typesetter. H e handed the sheet

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silently over the dirty glass screen. — Right: thanks, Hynes said moving off.

Mr. Bloom stood in his way.

— If you want to draw, the cashier is just going to lunch, he said, pointing backward with his thumb. —- Did y o u ? Hynes asked. — Mm, Mr. Bloom said. Look sharp and you'll catch him. — Thanks, old man, Hynes said. I'll tap him too. He hurried on eagerly towards the Freeman's Journal. Three bob I lent him in Meagher's. M r . Bloom laid his cutting on M r . Nannetti's desk. — Excuse me, councillor, he said. T h i s ad, you see. Keyes, you remember. Mr. Nannetti considered the cutting awhile and nodded. — He wants it in for July, M r . Bloom said.

T h e foreman moved his pencil towards it.

— B u t wait, M r . Bloom said. He wants it changed. Keyes, you see. He wants two keys at the top. Hell of a row they make. M a y b e he understands what I. T h e foreman turned round to hear patiently and, lifting an elbow, began to scratch slowly in the armpit of his alpaca jacket. — Like t h a t Mr. Bloom said, crossing his forefingers at the top. Let him take that in first . . . M r . Bloom, glancing sideways up from the cross he had made, saw the foreman's sallow face, think he has a touch of jaundice, and beyond the obedient reels feeding in the huge webs of paper. Clank it. Clank it. Miles of it unreeled. W h a t becomes of it after? O, wrap up meat, parcels: various uses, one thing or another. Slipping his words deftly into the pauses of the clanking he drew swiftly on the scarred woodwork. — Like that, see. T w o crossed keys here. A circle. Then here the name Alexander Keyes, tea, wine and spirit merchant. So on. Better not teach him his own business. — Y o u know yourself, councillor, just what he wants. Then round the top in leaded: the house of keys. Y o u see? D o you think that's a good idea?

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T h e foreman moved his scratching hand to his lower ribs and scratched there quietly. — T h e idea, Mr. Bloom said, is the house of keys. Y o u know, councillor, the Manx parliment. Tourists, you know, from the isle of M a n . Catches the eye, you see. Can you do that? I could ask him perhaps about how to pronounce that voglio. B u t then if he didn't know only make it awkard for him. Better not. — W e can do that, the foreman said. Have y o u the design? — I can get it, M r . Bloom said. It was in a Kilkenny paper. He has a house there too. I'll just run out and ask him. Well, you can do that and just a little par calling attention. Y o u know the usual Highclass licensed premises. Longfelt want. So on. T h e foreman thought for an instant. — W e can do that, he said. Let him give us a three month's renewal. A typesetter brought him a limp galleypage. H e began to check it silently. Mr. Bloom stood by, hearing the loud throbs of cranks, watching the silent typesetters at their cases. Want to be sure of his spelling. Martin Cunningham forgot to give us his spellingbee conundrum this morning. It is amusing to view the unpar one ar alleled embarra two ars is it? double ess ment of a harassed pedlar while gauging au the symmetry of a peeled pear under a cemetery wall. Silly isn't it? Cemetery put in of course on account of the symmetry. I could have said when he clapped on his topper. T h a n k you. I ought to have said something about an old hat or something. No, I could have said. Looks as good as new now. See his phiz then. Sllt. T h e nethermost deck of the first machine jogged for­ ward its flyboard with sllt the first batch of quirefolded papers. Sllt. Almost human the w a y it sllt to call attention. D o i n g its level best to speak. T h a t door too sllt creaking, asking to be shut. Everything speaks in its own way. Sllt. T h e foreman handed back the galleypage suddenly, saying: — W a i t . Where's the archbishop's letter? It's to be re­ peated in the Telegraph. Where's what's his name He looked about him round his loud unanswering machines. — Monks, sir?

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— A y . Where's Monks? — Monks!

Mr. Bloom took up his cutting. T i m e to get out.

— T h e n I'll get the design, Mr. Nannetti, he said, and you'll

give it a good place I know. — Monks! — Y e s sir. Three month's renewal. Want to get some wind off my chest first. T r y it anyhow. Rub in August: good idea: horseshow month. Ballsbridge. Tourists over for the show. He walked on throught the caseroom, passing an old man, bowed, spectacled, aproned. Old Monks, the dayfather. Queer lot of stuff he must have put through his hands in his time: obituary notices, pubs' ads, speeches, divorce suits, found drowned. Near¬ ing the end of his tether now. Sober serious man with a bit in the savings bank I'd say. Wife a good cook and washer. Daughter working the machine in the parlour. Plain Jane, no damn nonsense. He stayed in his walk to watch a typesetter neatly distributing type. Reads it backwards first. Quickly he does it. Must require some practice that. mangiD kcirtaP. Poor papa with his hagga¬ dah book, reading backwards with his finger to me. Pessach. Next year in Jerusalem. Dear, O dear! All that long business about that brought us out of Egypt alleluia. Shema Israel Adonai Elohenu. N o , that's the other. T h e n the twelve brothers, Ja­ cob's sons. And then the lamb and the cat and the dog and the stick and the water and the butcher and then then the angel of death kills the butcher and he kills the ox and and the dog kills the cat. Sounds a bit silly till y o u come to look into it well. Justice it means but it's everybody eating everyone else. That's what life is after all. How quickly he does that job. Seems to see with his fingers. Mr. Bloom passed on out of the clanking noises through the gallery on to the landing. N o w am I going to tram it out all the way and then catch him out perhaps. Better phone him up first. Number? Same as Citron's house. Twentyeight. Twentyeight double four. He went down the house staircase. Who the deuce scrawled all over these walls with matches? Looks as if they did it for a bet. H e a v y greasy smell there always is in those works, ;

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He took out his handerchief to dab his nose. Citronlemon? Ah, the soap I put there. Lose it out of that pocket. Putting back his handerkerchief he took out the soap and stowed it away, buttoned, into the hip pocket of his trousers. What perfume does your wife use? I could g o home still: tram: something I forgot. Just to see: before: dressing. N o . Here. N o . A sudden screech of laughter came from the Evening Tele­ graph office. Know who that is. What's up? Pop in a minute to phone. Ned Lambert it is. H e entered softly. — T h e ghost walks, professor MacHugh murmured softly, biscuitfully to the dusty windowpane. Mr. Dedalus, staring from the empty fireplace at N e d Lam­ bert's quizzing face, asked of it sourly: — Agonizing Christ, would'nt it give you a heartburn on your arse?

N e d Lambert, seated on the table, read on:

— Or follow the meanderings of some purling rill as it bab­ bles on its way to Neptune's blue domain, mid mossy banks, played on by the glorious sunlight or among the shadows cast upon its pensive bosom by the overarching leafage of the giants of the for­ est. What about that, Simon? he asked over the fringe of his newspaper. — Changing his drink, Mr. Dedalus said. Ned Lambert, laughing, struck the newspaper on his knees repeating: — The pensive bosom and the overarching leafage. O boys! O boys! — T h a t will do, professor M a c H u g h cried from the window. I don't want to hear any more of the stuff. H e ate off the crescent of water biscuit he had been nibbling and made ready to nibble the biscuit in his other hand. High falutin stuff. Ned Lambert is taking a day off I see. Rather upsets a man's day a funeral does. H e has influence, they say. Old Chatterton, the vicechancellor is his granduncle or his greatgranduncle. Ninetyfive they say. T h e right honourable Hedges Eyre Chatterton. D a r e s a y he writes him an odd shaky cheque or two.

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— Just another spasm, N e d Lambert s a i d . — W h a t is it? M r . Bloom a s k e d . — A recently discovered fragment of Cicero's, professor MacHugh answered with pomp of tone. Our lovely land. — Whose land? M r . Bloom said simply. — Most pertinent question, the professor said between his chews, with an accent on the whose. -— D a n Dawson's land, M r . Dedalus said. — I s it his speech last night? M r . Bloom asked.

N e d Lambert nodded.

— B u t listen to this, he said. T h e doorknob hit M r . Bloom in the small of the back as the door was pushed in. — Excuse me, J . J. O'Molloy said, entering.

M r . Bloom moved nimbly aside.

— I beg yours, he said. — Good d a y , Jack. — Come in. Come in. — Good day. — H o w are y o u , Dedalus? — Well. A n d yourself? J. J. O ' M o l l o y shook his head. Cleverest fellow a t the junior bar he used to be. Decline, poor chap. Touch and go with him. — Or again if we but climb the towering mountain peaks. — Y o u ' r e looking a s fit as a fiddle. — I s the editor to be seen? J. J. O'Molloy asked, looking towards the inner door. — Very much so, professor M a c H u g h said. T o be seen and heard. H e ' s in his sanctum with Lenehan. J. J. O'Molloy strolled to the sloping desk and began to turn back the pink pages of the file. Practice dwindling. Losing heart. Used to get good retain­ ers from D . and T . Fitzgerald. Believe he does some literary work for the Express with Gabriel Conroy. Well-read fellow. Myles Crawford began o n the Independent. Funny the w a y they veer about. G o for one another baldheaded in the papers and then hail fellow well met the next moment. — Ah, listen to this for God's sake, N e d Lambert pleaded. Or

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again if we but climb the towering mountain peaks . . . . — Bombast! the professor broke in testily. Enough of the windbag! —Peaks, Ned Lambert went on, to bathe our souls, as itwere . . . . — Bathe his lips, M r . Dedalus said. Y e s ? —- As it were, in the peerless panorama of bosky grove and undulating plain and luscious pastureland, steeped in the transcen­ dent translucent glow of our mild mysterious Irish twilight. . . . — T h e moon, professor MacHugh said. H e forgot Hamlet. —That mantles the vista far and wide and wait till the glow­ ing orb of the moon shines forth to irradiate her silver efful­ gence ... — O ! M r . Dedalus groaned helplessly. Onions! That'll do, N e d . Life is too short. He took off his silk hat and, blowing out impatiently his bushy moustache, began to rake through his hair with his fingers. Ned Lambert tossed the newspaper aside, chuckling with delight. An instant after a hoarse bark of laughter burst over professor MacHugh's unshaven blackspectaled face. — Doughy D a w ! he cried. All very fine to jeer at it now in cold print but it goes down like hot cake that stuff. H e was in the bakery line too wasn't he? Why they call him doughy D a w . Feathered his nest well anyhow. Daughter engaged to that chap in the inland revenue office with B i g blowout. the motor. Hooked that nicely. Entertainments. Wetherup always said that. Get a grip of them b y the stomach. T h e inner door was opened violently and a scarlet beaked face, crested b y a comb of feathery hair, thrust itself in. T h e bold blue eyes stared about them and the harsh voice asked: — What is it? - - A n d here comes the sham squire himself, professor M a c H u g h said grandly. — Getououthat, y o u bloody old pedagogue! the editor said in recognition. — Come, Ned, Mr. Dedalus said, putting on his hat. I must get a drink after that.

—Dirrink! the editor cried. N o drink served before mass.

— Quite right too, M r . Dedalus said, going out. Come on, Ned.

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Ned Lambert sidled down from the table. T h e editor's blue eyes roved towards Mr. Bloom's face, shadowed b y a smile. — Will you join us, Myles? Ned Lambert asked. — North Cork militia! the editor cried, striding to the mantel­ piece. W e won every time! North Cork and Spanish officers! • — Where was that, Myles? Ned Lambert asked with a re­ flective glance at his toecaps. — In Ohio! the editor shouted. — So it was, begad, Ned Lambert agreed.

Passing out, he whispered to J. J. O'Molloy:

— Incipient jigs. Sad case. — Ohio! the editor crowed in high treble from his uplifted scarlet face. M y Ohio! — A perfect cretic! the professor said. Long, short and long. He took a reel of dental floss from his waistcoat pocket and. breaking off a piece, twanged it smartly between two and two of his resonant unwashed teeth. --- Bingbang, bangbang.

Mr. Bloom seeing the coast clear, made for the inner d o o r .

— Just a moment, M r . Crawford, he said. I just want to phone about an ad. He went in. — W h a t about that leader this evening? professor MacHugh asked, coming to the editor and laying a firm hand on his shoulder. — That'll be all right, M y l e s Crawford said more calmly. Never y o u fret. Hello, Jack. — Good day, Myles, J. J. O'Molloy said, letting the pages he held slip limply back on the file. Is that Canada swindle case on today? T h e telephone whirred inside. — T w e n t y eight. . . N o , twenty. . . Doublefour. . Y e s . Lenehan came out of the inner office with tissues. — Who wants a dead cert for the Gold cup? he asked. Scep­ tre with O. Madden up. He tossed the tissues on to the table. Screams of newsboys barefoot in the hall rushed near and the door was flung open. Professor M a c H u g h strode across the room and seized the cringing urchin b y the collar as the others scampered out of the hall and down the steps. T h e tissues rustled up in the draught, floated softtly in the air blue scrawls and under the table came to earth.

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— It wasn't me, sir. It was the big fellow shoved me, sir. — Throw him out, the editor said. W h a t does he want? Lenehan began to paw the tissues up from the floor, grunting as he stooped twice. —Waiting for the racing special, sir, the newsboy said. It was Pat Mullins shoved me in, sir.

He pointed to two faces peering in round the doorframe.

—Him, sir.

— Out of this with you, professor M a c H u g h said gruffly. He thrust the boy out and banged the door to. — Y e s . . . Evening Telegraph here, Mr. Bloom phoned from the inner office. Is the boss . . . ? Y e s , Telegraph . . . T o where? . . . Aha! Which auction rooms? . . Aha! I see. . . Right. I'll catch him. T h e bell whirred again as he rang off. He came in quickly and bumped against Lenehan who was struggling up with the sec­ ond tissue. — Pardon, monsieur, Lenehan said, clutching him for an in­ stant and making a grimace. -— M y fault, Mr. Bloom said, suffering his grip. Are y o u hurt? I'm in a hurry.

—Knee, Lenehan said.

He made a comic face and whined, rubbing his knee:

— T h e accumulation of the anno Domini. — Sorry , Mr. Bloom said. He went to the door and, holding it ajar, paused. T h e noise of two shrill voices, a mouthorgan, echoed in the bare hallway from the newsboys squatted on the doorsteps: — We are the boys of Wexford

Who fought with heart and hand.

—I'm just running round to Bachelor's walk, M r . Bloom said, about this ad of Keyes's. W a n t to fix it up. T h e y tell me he's round there in Dillon's. He looked indecisively for a moment at their faces. T h e editor who, leaning against the mantelshelf, had propped his head on his hand, suddenly stretched forth an arm amply. — Go, he said. T h e world is before you.

— B a c k in no time, M r . Bloom said, hurrying out.

J. J. O'Molloy took the tissues from Lenehan's hand and read them without comment.

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— He'll get that advertisement, the professor said, staring through his blackrimmed spectacles over the crossblind. Look at the young scamps after him. —-- Show. W h e r e ? Lenehan cried, running to the window. Both smiled over the crossblind at the file of capering news­ boys in Mr. Bloom's wake, the last zigzagging white on the breeze a mocking kite, a tail of white bowknots. -- Look at the young guttersnipes behind him, Lenehan said, and you'll kick. T a k i n g off his flat spaugs and the walk. Steal upon larks. He began to mazurka swiftly across the floor on sliding feet past the fireplace to J. J. O'Molloy who placed the tissues in his receiving hands. -—What's that? Myles Crawford said with a start. Where are the other two gone? — Who? the professor said turning. T h e y ' r e gone round to the Oval for a drink. —Come on then, M y l e s Crawford said. Wher's m y hat? He walked jerkily into the office behind, jingling his keys in his pocket. T h e y jingled then in the air and against the wood as he locked his desk drawer. — H e ' s pretty well on professor, MacHugh said in a low voice. — Seems to be, J. J. O'Molloy said, taking out a cigarette case. W h o has the most matches? He offered a cigarette to the professor and took one himself. Lenehan promptly struck a match for them and lit their cigarettes in turn. J. J. O'Molloy opened his case again and offered it. — T h a n k y vous, Lenehan said, helping himself. T h e editor came from the inner office, a straw hat awry on his brow. He declaimed in song, pointing sternly at professor MacHugh: —'Twas rank and fame that tempted thee,

'Twas empire charmed thy heart.

T h e professor grinned, locking his long lips. — E h ? Y o u bloody old Roman empire? M y l e s Crawford said. He took a cigarette from the open case. Lenehan, lighting it for him with quick grace, said: — Silence for m y brandnew riddle! — Imperium romanum, J. J. O'Molloy said gently. It sounds nobler than British or Brixton. T h e word reminds one somehow

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of fat in the fire. M y l e s Crawford blew his first puff violently towards the ceiling. — That's it, he said. W e are the fat. Y o u and I are the fat in the fire. We haven't got the chance of a snowball in hell. — Wait a moment, professor MacHugh said, raising two quiet claws. We musn't be led away by words, by sounds of words. W e think of Rome imperial, imperious, imperative. He extended his arms, pausing: -— What was their civilization? Vast, I allow: but vile. Cloacae: sewer. T h e jews in the wilderness and on the moun¬ taintop said: It is meet to be here. Let us build an altar to Je­ hovah. T h e Roman, like the Englishman who follows in his foot­ steps, brought to every new shore on which he set his foot (on our shore he never set it) only his cloacal obsession. He gazed about him in his toga and he said: It is meet to be here. Let us construct a watercloset. — Our old ancient ancestors, Lenehan said, were partial to the running stream. — T h e y were nature's gentlemen, J. J O'Molloy murmured. But we have also Roman law. — And Pontius Pilate is its prophet, professor M a c H u g h re­ sponded. — D o you know that story about chief baron Palles? J. J. O'Molly asked. — First my riddle, Lenehan said. Are you ready? Mr. O'Madden Burke, tall in copious grey, came in from the hallway. Stephen Dedalus, behind him, uncovered as he entered. — Entrez, mes enfants! Lenehan cried. — I escort a suppliant, Mr. O'Madden Burke said melodiously. How do you do? the editor said, holding out a hand. Come i n . Your governor is just gone. Lenehan said to all: — Silence! What opera resembles a railwayline? reflect, ponder, excogitate, reply. Stephen handed over the typed sheets, pointing to the title and signature. — Who? the editor asked. B i t torn off.

M r . Garrett Deasy, Stephen said.

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— T h a t old pelters, the editor said.

Review Who tore it? W a s he short

taken? On swift sail flaming From storm and south He comes, pale phantom, Mouth to my mouth. — Good day, Stephen, the professor said, coming to peer over their shoulders. Foot and mouth. ? Are you turned. . . ?

Bullockbefriending bard.

— Good day, sir, Stephen answered, blushing. T h e letter is not mine. M r . Garret Deasy asked me to — O, I know him, M y l e s Crawford said, and knew his wife too. T h e bloodiest old tartar God ever made. B y Jesus, she had the foot and mouth disease and no mistake! T h e night she threw the soup in the waiter's face in the Star and Garter. Oho! A woman brought sin into the world. For Helen, the runa­ way wife of Menelaus, ten years the Greek's. O'Rourke's wife, prince of Breffni. — Is he a widower? Stephen asked. — A y , a grass one, Myles Crawford said. Emperor's horses. Habsburg. A n Irishman saved his life on the ramparts of Vienna. Don't you forget! Maximilian K a r l O'Donnell, graf von Tirconnel in Ireland. Wild geese. O, yes, every time. Don't y o u forget that! — T h e point is did he forget it. J. J. O'Molloy said quietly. Saving princes is a thankyou job. Professor MacHugh turned on him. -— A n d if not? he said. — I'll tell you how it was, Myles Crawford began. A Hun­ garian it was one day. . . — W e were always loyal to lost causes, the professor said. Success for us is the death of the intellect and of the imagination. W e were never loyal to the successful. W e serve them. I teach the blatant Latin language. I speak the tongue of a race the acme of whose mentality is the maxim: time is money. Material domin­ ation. Dominus! Lord! Where is the spirituality? Lord Jesus! Lord Salisbury. A sofa in a westend club. But the Greek! A smile of light brightened his darkrimmed eyes, his long lips. — T h e Greek! he said again. Kyrios! Shining word! Kyrie! T h e radiance of the intellect. I ought to profess Greek, the lan­

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guage of the mind. Kyrie eleison! T h e closetmaker and the cloacamaker will never be lords of our spirit. W e are liege subjects of the catholic chivalry of Europe that foundered at Trafalgar and of the empire of the spirit, not an imperium, that went under with the Athenian fleets at Aegospotami. Y e s , yes. T h e y went under. Pyrrhus, misled by an oracle, made a last attempt to retrieve the fortunes of Greece. Loyal to a lost cause. He strode away from them towards the window. — T h e y went forth to battle, Mr. O'Madden Burke said greyly, but they always fell. — There's a ponderous pundit MacHugh

Who wears goggles of ebony hue:

As he mostly sees double,

To wear them why trouble?

I can't see the Joe Miller. Can you?

In m y mourning for Sallust, Mulligan says. Whose mother is beasty dead. Myles Crawford crammed the sheets into a sidepocket. — That'll be all right, he said. I'll read the rest after. That'll be all right. Lenehan extended his hands in protest. -— B u t my riddle! he said. What opera is like a railwayline? — Opera? Mr. O'Madden Burke's vague face repeated. Lenehan announced gladly: — The Rose of Castile. See the wheeze? R o w s of cast steel. Gee! He poked Mr. O'Madden Burke mildly in the spleen. M r . O'Madden Burke fell back with grace on his umbrella, feigning a gasp. — Help! he sighed. Lenehan, rising to tiptoe, fanned his face rapidly with the rustling tissues. T h e professor, returning by way of the files, swept his hand across Stephen's and Mr. O'Madden Burke's loose ties. — Paris, past and present, he said. Y o u look like communards. — Like fellows who had blown up the Bastile, J. J. O'Molloy said in quiet mockery. Or was it you shot the lord lieutenant of Finland between you. Y o u look as though you had done the deed. General Bobrikoff.

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— W e were only thinking about it, Stephen said. — A l l the talents, Myles Crawford said. Law, the classics. . . — T h e turf, Lenehan put in. — Literature, the press. — If Bloom were here, the professor said. T h e gentle art of advertisement. -— And M a d a m Bloom, Mr. O'Madden Burke added. The vocal muse. Dublin's prime favorite. Lenehan gave a loud cough. — Ahem! he said very softly. I caught a cold in the park. T h e gate was o p e n . T h e editor laid a nervous hand on Stephen's shoulder. — I want y o u to write something for me, he said. Some­ thing with a bite in it. Y o u can do it. I see it in your face. See it in your face. See it in your eye. L a z y idle little schemer. — Foot and mouth disease! the editor cried scornfully. Great nationalist meeting in Borris-in-Ossory. All balls! Bulldozing Give them something with a bite in it. Put us all the p u b l i c . into it, damn its soul. Father, Son and Holy Ghost. — W e can all supply mental pabulum, Mr. O'Madden Burke said. Stephen raised his eyes to the bold unheeding stare. — He wants you for the pressgang, J. J. O'Malloy said. — Y o u can do it, Myles Crawford repeated, clenching his hand in emphasis. Wait a minute. W e ' l l paralyse Europe as Ignatius Gallaher used to say when he was on the shaughranun. T h a t was pressman for you. Y o u know how he made his mark? I'll tell you. T h a t was the smartest piece of journalism ever known. T h a t was in eightytwo, time of the invincibles, murder in Phoenix park, before the you were born. I'll show you. H e pushed past them to the files. — Look at" here, he said, turning. T h e New York World cabled for a special. Remember that time? Professor M a c H u g h nodded. T h e New York World, the editor said, excitedly pushing back his straw hat. Where it took place. Where Skin-the goatdrove the car. Whole route, see? Skin-the-goat, Mr. O'Madden Burke said. Fitzharris. He has that cabman's shelter they say, down there at Butt bridge.

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Holohan told me. Y o u know Holohan? — Hop and carry one, is it? M y l e s Crawford said. — And poor Gumly is down there too, he told me minding stones for the corporation. A nightwatchman. Stephen turned in surprise. — Gumly? he said. A friend of my father's, is he? -— Never mind Gumly, M y l e s Crawford cried angrily. L e t Gumly mind the stones, see they don't run away. Look at here. What did Ignatius Gallaher do? I'll tell you. Inspiration of genius Cabled right away. Have you Weekly Freeman of 17 March? Right. Have you got that? He flung back pages of the files and stuck his finger on a point. — T a k e page four, advertisement for Bransom's coffee, let us say. Have you got that? Right. T h e telephone whirred, —- I'll answer it, the professor said, going. — B is parkgate. Good.

His finger leaped and struck point after point, vibrating.

— T is viceregal lodge. C is where the murder took place. K . is Knockmaroon gate. T h e loose flesh of his neck shook like a cock's wattles. A n illstarched dicky jutted up and with a rude gesture he thrust it back into his waiscoat. — Hello? Evening Telegraph here. . . Hello? . . . Who's there? . . . Y e s . . . Y e s . . . Y e s . — - F to P is the route Skin-the-goat drove the car. F. A. B . P. Got that? X is Burke's publichouse in Baggot street. T h e professor came to the inner door. — Bloom is at the telephone, he said. — Tell him to go to hell, the editor said promptly. X is Burke's publichouse, see? — Clever, Lenehan said. — Gave it to them on a hot plate, Myles Crowford said, the whole bloody history. Nightmare from which you will never awake. — I saw it, the editor said proudly. I was present, Dick Adams and myself. Out of an advertisement. T h a t gave him the leg up. Then T a y Pay took him on to the Star. Now he's got in with Blumenfeld. That's press. That's talent.

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— Hello? . . . Are you there? . . . . Y e s , he's here still. Come across your self. — Where do you find a pressman like that now, eh? the editor cried.

He flung the pages down.

— Clever idea, Lenehan said to Mr. O'Madden Burke. — Very smart, M r . O'Madden Burke said.

Professor M a c H u g h came from the inner office.

— T a l k i n g about the invincibles, he said, did you see that some hawkers were up before the recorder — O yes, J. J. O'Molloy said eagerly. L a d y Dudley was walking home through the park and thought she'd buy a view of Dublin. And it turned out to be a commemoration postcard of Joe Brady or Skin-the-goat. Right outside the viceregal lodge, imagine! — They're only in the hook and eye department, Myles Craw­ ford s a i d . Psha! Press and the bar! Where have you a man now at the bar like those fellows, like Whiteside, like Isaac Butt, like silvertongued O'Hagan? Eh? Ah, bloody nonsense! Only in the halfpenny place! His mouth continued to twitch unspeaking in nervous curls of disdain. Would anyone wish that mouth for her kiss? How do you know? W h y did you write it then? Mouth, south. Is the mouth south someway?- Or the south a mouth? Must be some. South, pout, out, shout, drouth. Rymes: two men dressed the same, looking the same, two b y two. la tua pace che parlar ti piace Mentreche il vento, come fa, si tace He saw them three b y three, approaching girls, in green, in rose, in russet, entwining, per l'aer perso, in mauve, in purple, quella pacifica oriafiamma, in gold of oriflamme, di rimirar fe piu ardenti. B u t I old men, penitent, leadenfooted: mouth, south: tomb womb. — Speak up for yourself, M r . O'Madden Burke said. J. J. O'Molloy, smiling palely, took up the gage. — M y dear Myles, he said, flinging his cigarette aside, your Cork legs are running away with you. W h y not bring in Henry

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Grattan and Flood and Demosthenes and Edmund Burke? Ignat­ ius Gallaher we all know and his Chapelized boss, Harmsworth of the farthing press, and his American cousin of the Bowery guttersheet. W h y bring in a master of forensic eloquence like Whiteside? Sufficient for the day is the newspaper thereof. — Grattan and Flood wrote for this very paper, the editor cried in his face. Irish volunteers. Where are you now? Dr. Lucas. Who have you now. like John Philpot Curran? Psha! — Well, J. J. O'Molloy said, Seymour Bushe, for example. — Bushe? the editor said. Well, yes. : Bushe, y e s . He has a strain of it in his blood. Kendal Bushe or I mean Seymour Bushe. — He would have been on the bench long ago, the professor said. . . . J. J. O'Molloy turned to Stephen and said quietly and slowly: — One of the most polished periods I think I ever listened to in my life fell from the lips of Seymour Bushe. It was in that case of fratricide, the Childs murder case. Bushe defended him. And in the porches of mine ear did pour B y the way how did he find that out? He died in his sleep . Or the other story, beast with two backs? — What was that? the professor asked. — He spoke on the law of evidence, J. J. O'Molloy said, of Roman justice as contrasted with the earlier Mosaic code, the lex talionis. And he spoke of the Moses of Michelangelo in the Vatican. — Ha. Pause. J. J. O'Molloy took out his cigarettcase. False lull. Something quite ordinary. Messenger took out his matchbox thoughtfully and lit his cigar. I have often thought since on looking back over that strange time that it was that small act, trivial in itself, the striking of a match, that determined the whole aftercourse of both our lives. J. J. O'Molloy resumed, moulding his words: — He said of it: that stony effigy, horned and terrible, that eternal symbol of wisdom and of prophecy which, if aught that the imagination or the hand of sculptor has wrought in marble of soul­ transfigured and of soultransfiguring deserves to live, deserves to live.

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His slim hand with a wave graced echo and fall. — Fine! M y l e s Crawford said at once. — Y o u like it? J. J. O'Molloy asked Stephen. Stephen, his blood wooed b y grace of language and gesture, blushed. He took a cigarette from the case. J. J. O'Molloy offer­ ed his case to Myles Crawford. Lenehan lit their cigarettes as before and helped himself. — Professor Magennis was speaking to me about you, J. J. O'Molloy said to Stephen. W h a t do y o u think really of that hermetic crowd the opal hush poets: A. E . the mastermystic? T h a t Blavatsky woman started it. She was a nice old bag of tricks, A. E. has been telling some interviewer that you came to him in the small hours of the morning to ask him about planes of consciousness. Magennis thinks y o u must have been pulling A. E. 's leg. He is a man of the very highest morale, Magennis. Speaking about me. What did he say? What did he say? W h a t did he say about me? D o n ' t ask. — N o , thanks, professor MacHugh said, waving the cigarettecase aside. Wait a moment. L e t me say one thing. T h e finest display of oratory I ever heard was a speech made b y John F. T a y l o r at the college historical society. M r . Justice Fitzgibbon, the present lord justice of appeal, had spoken and the paper un­ der debate was an essay (new for those days) advocating the re­ vival of the Irish tongue. He turned towards M y l e s Crawford and said: — Y o u know Gerald Fitzgibbon. T h e n you can imagine the style of his discourse. — H e is sitting with T i m Healy, J. J. O ' M o l l y said on the Trinity college estates commission. — He is sitting with a sweet thing in a child's frock, Myles Crawford said. Go ort. Well? — It was the speech, mark you, the professor said, of a fin­ ished orator, full of courteous haughtiness and pouring I will not say the vials of his wrath but pouring the proud man's contumely upon the new movement. It was then a new movement. He closed his long thin lips an instant but, eager to be on, raised an outspanned hand to his spectacles and, with trembling thumb and ringfinger touching lightly the black rims, steadied them to a new focus.

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In ferial tone he addressed J. J. O'Molloy: — T a y l o r had come there, you must know, from a sick bed. T h a t he had prepared his speech I do not believe. His dark lean face had a growth of shaggy beard round it. He wore a loose neckcloth and altogether he looked (though he was not) a dying man. His gaze turned at once towards Stephen's face and then bent at once to the ground, seeking. His unglazed linen collar appeared behind his bent head, soiled by his withering hair. Still seeking, he said: — When Fitzgibbon's speech had ended John F. Taylor rose to reply. A s well as I can bring them to mind his words were these. He raised his head firmly. His eyes bethought themselves once more. Witless shellfish swam in the gross lenses to and fro, seeking outlet. H e began: -— Mr. chairman, ladies and gentlemen: in listening to the remarks addressed to the youth of Ireland a moment since by my learned friend it seemed to me that I had been transported into a country far away from this country, into an age remote from this age, that I stood in ancient Egypt and that I was listening to the speech of some highpriest of that land addressed to the youthful Moses. His listeners held their cigarettes poised to hear, smokes as­ cending in frail stalks that flowered with his speech. And let our crooked smokes. Noble words coming. L o o k out. Could y o u try your hand at it yourself? — And it seemed to me that I heard the voice of that Egyp­ tian highpriest raised in a tone of like haughtiness and like pride. I heard his words and their meaning was revealed to me. It was revealed to me that those things are good which yet are corrupted which neither if they were supremely goond nor unless they were good, could be corrupted. Ah, curse you! That's saint Augustine. — Why will you jews not accept our culture, our religion and our language? You are a tribe of nomad herdsmens, we are a mighty people. You have no cities nor no wealth: our cities are hives of humanity and our galleys, trireme and quadrireme, laden

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with all manner of merchandise furrow the waters of the known globe. You have but emerged from primitive condition: we have a literature, a priesthood, an agelong history and a polity. Nile. Child, man, effigy, B y the Nilebank the babemaries kneel, cradle of bulrushes: a man supple in combat: stonehorned, stonebearded, heart of stone. — You pray to a local and obscure idol: our temples, majestic and mysterious, are the abodes of Isis and Osiris, of Horus and Ammon Ra. Vagrants and daylabourers are you called: the world trembles at our name. A dumb belch of hunger cleft his speech. He lifted his voice above it boldly: —But, ladies and gentlemen, had the youthful Moses listened to and accepted that view of life, had he bowed his head and bowed his will and bowed his spirit before that arrogant admonition he would never have brought the chosen people out of their house of bondage nor followed the pillar of the cloud by day. He would never have spoken with the Eternal amid lightnings on Sinai's mountaintop nor ever have come down with the light of inspiration shining in his countenance and bearing in his arms the tables of the law, graven in the language of the outlaw. He ceased and looked at them, enjoying silence. J. J. O'Molloy said not without regret: — A n d yet he died without having entered the land of promise. — A-sudden-at-the-moment-though-from-lingering-illness-often previousy-expectorated-demise, Lenehan said. And with a great future behind him. T h e troop of bare feet was heard rushing along the hallway and pattering up the staircase. — T h a t is oratory, the professor said, uncontradicted. Gone with the wind. Hosts at Mullaghmast and T a r a of the kings. Miles of ears of porches. T h e tribune's words howled and scattered. D e a d noise. Akasic records of all that ever any­ where wherever was. I have money. — Gentlemen, Stephen said. M a y I suggest that the house do now adjourn?

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— It is not a French compliment? Mr. O'Madden Burke asked. — All who are in favour say ay, Lenehan announced. The contrary no. I declare it carried. T o which particular boosing­ shed . .? Mooney's? He led the way. Mr. O'Madden Burke, following close, said with an ally's lunge of his umbrella: — Lay on, Macduff! — Chip of the old block! the editor cried, slapping Stephen on the shoulder. Let us go. Where are those bloody keys? He fumbled in his pocket, pulling out the crushed typesheets. — Foot and mouth. I know. That'll be all right. That'll go in. Where are they?

He thrust the sheets back and went into the inner office.

J. J. O'Molloy, about to follow him in, said quietly to Stephen: — I hope you will live to see it published. Myles, one moment. He went into the inner office, closing the door behind him. — Come along, Stephen, the professor said. T h a t is fine, isn't it? It has the prophetic vision. T h e first newsboy came pattering down the stairs at their heels and rushed out into the street, yelling: — Racing special!

Dublin.

T h e y turned to the left along Abbey street.

— I have a vision too, Stephen said. — Yes? the professor said, skipping to get into step. Craw­ ford will follow. Another newsboy shot past them, yelling as he ran: — Racing special!

Dubliners.

— T w o Dublin vestals, Stephen said, elderly and" pious, have lived fifty and fiftythree years in Fumbally's lane. — Where is that? the professor asked. — Off Blackpitts, Stephen said. D a m p night reeking of hungry dough. Against the wall. Face glistening, tallow under her fustian shawl. Frantic hearts. Akasic records. Quicker, darlint!

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On now. Let there be life. — T h e y want to see the views of Dublin from the top of Nelson's pillar. T h e y save up three and tenpenee in a red tin let­ terbox moneybox. T h e y shake out threepenny bits and a sixpence and coax out the pennies with the blade of a knife. T w o and three in silver and one and seven in coppers. T h e y put on their tonnets and best clothes and take their umbrellas for fear it may come on to rain. — Wise virgins, professor M a c H u g h said. — T h e y b u y oneandfourpenceworth of brawn and four slices of panloaf at the north city diningrooms in Marlborough street from Miss K a t e Collins, proprietress . . T h e y purchase four and twenty ripe plums from a girl at the foot of Nelson's pillar to take off the thirst of the brawn. T h e y give two threepenny bits to the gentleman at the turnstile and begin to waddle slowly up the winding staircase, grunting, encouraging each other, afraid of the dark, panting, one asking the other have you the brawn, praising God and the Blessed Virgin, threatening to come down, peeping at the airslits. Glory be to God. T h e y had no idea it was that high. Their names are Anne Kearns and Florence M a c C a b e . Anne Kearns has the lumbago for which she rubs on Lourdes water given her b y a lady who got a bottleful from a passionist father. Flor­ ence M a c C a b e takes a crubeen and a bottle of double X for supper every Saturday. — Antithesis, the professor said, nodding twice. I can see them. What's keeping our friend? H e turned. A b e v y of scampering newsboys rushed down the steps, scamp­ ering in all directions, yelling, their white papers fluttering. Hard after them M y l e s Crawford appeared on the steps, his hat aureoling his scarlet face, talking with J. J. O'Molloy. —- Come along, the professor cried waving his arm. He set off again to walk b y Stephen's side. — Y e s , he said, I see them. M r . Bloom, caught in a whirl of wild newsboys near the steps, called: — Mr. Crawford! A moment!

-— Telegraph! Racing special!

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— What is it? Myles Crawford said, falling back a pace. A newsboy cried in Mr. Bloom's face: —- Terrible tragedy in Rathmines! A child bit b y a bellows! -— Just this ad, M r . Bloom said, pushing through and taking the cutting from his pocket. I spoke with Mr. K e y e s just now. He'll give a renewal for two months, he says. After he'll see. B u t he wants a par to call attention in the Telegraph too, the Satur­ day pink. And he wants it if it's not too late. I told councillor Nannetti from the Kilkenny People. I can get it in the National library. House of keys, don't you see? His name is Keyes. It's a play on the name. But he says he'll give the renewal. B u t he wants the par. W h a t will I tell him, Mr. Crawford? — W i l l you tell him he can kiss my arse? Myles Crawford said, throwing out his arm for emphasis. Tell him that straight from the stable. A bit nervy. All off for a drink. Lenehan's yachting cap on the cadge beyond. Wonder is that young Dedalus standing. Has a good pair of boots on him today. Last time I saw him he had his heels on view. Been walking in muck somewhere. Careless chap. What was he doing in Irishtown? — Well, Mr. Bloom said, his eyes returning, if I can get the design I suppose it's worth a short par. He'd give the ad. I think. I'll tell him . . . . —- He can kiss my royal Irish arse, Myles Crawford cried loudly over his shoulder. A n y time he likes, tell him. While Mr. Bloom stood weighing the point and about to smile he strode on jerkily. —- Nulla bona, Jack, he said, raising his hand to his chin. I'm up to here. I've been through the hoop myself. I was looking for a fellow to back a bill for me no later than last week. Sorry, Jack. With a heart and a half if I could. J. J. O'Molloy pulled a long face and walked on silently They caught up on the others and walked abreast. — When they have eaten the brawn and the bread and wiped their twenty fingers in the paper the bread was wrapped in they go nearer the railings. — Something for you. the professor explained to Myles Craw­ ford. T w o old Dublin women on the top of Nelson's pillar. — That's new, M y l e s Crawford said. Out for the waxies'

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Dargle. T w o old trickles, what? — But they are afraid the pillar will fall, Stephen went on. T h e y see the roofs and argue about where the different churches are: Rathmines' blue dome, A d a m and Eve's, saint Laurence O'Toole's. But it makes them giddy to look so they pull up their skirts . . . . — Easy all, Myles Crawford said. We're in the archdiocese here. — And settle down on their striped petticoats, peering up at the statue of the onehandled adulterer. — Onehandled adulterer! the professor cried. I like that. I see the idea. I see what you mean. -— It gives them a crick in their necks, Stephen said, and they are too tired to look up or down or to speak. T h e y put the bag of plums betwen them and eat the plums out of it, one after another wiping off with their handkerchiefs the plumjuice that dribbles out of their mouths and spitting the plumstones slowly out between the railways. H e gave a sudden loud y o u n g laugh as a close. Lenehan and M r . O'Madden Burke, hearing, turned, beckoned and led on across towards Mooney's. — Finished? Myles Crawford said. So long as they do no worse. — Y o u remind me of Antisthenes, the professor said, a disciple of Gorgias the sophist. I t is said of him that none could tell if he were bitterer against others or against himself. H e was the son of a noble and a bondwoman. And he wrote a book in which he took away the palm of beauty from Argive Helen and handed it to poor Penelope. Poor Penelope. Penelope Rich.

T h e y made ready to cross O'Connell street.

— B u t what do y o u call it? M y l e s Crawford asked. Where did they get the plums? — Call it, wait, the professor said, opening his long lips wide to reflect. Call it, let me see. Call it: deus nobis haec otia fecit. — N o , Stephen said, I call it A Pisgah Sight of Palestine. — I see, the professor said.

H e laughed richly.

I see, he said again with new pleasure. Moses and the promised land. W e gave him that idea, he added to J. J. O'Molloy.

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J J .O'Molloy sent a weary sidelong glance towards the statue and held his peace. —- I see, the professor said. H e halted on Sir John Gray's pavement island and peered aloft at Nelson through the meshes of his wry smile. — Onehandled adulterer, he said grimly. T h a t tickles me I must say. — Tickled the old ones too, M y l e s Crawford said, if the truth was known. (To be continued)

ALBERT MOCKEL AND "LA Ezra

WALLONIE"

Pound

A

M O N G the " r e w a r d s " for our F e b r u a r y n u m b e r is a letter f r o m A l b e r t M o c k e l w r i t t e n w i t h a g r a c i o u s n e s s n o t often e m p l o y e d b y E n g l i s h and A m e r i c a n w r i t e r s in c o m m u n i c a t i o n t o their j u n i o r s . I n d e e d the present elder g e n e r a t i o n of A m e r i c a n " r e s p e c t a b l e " au­ thors h a v i n g all their lives a p p r o a c h e d so n e a r l y to death, h a v e al­ w a y s been rather a n n o y e d that A m e r i c a n letters did n o t die u t t e r l y in their personal dessications. S i g n s of v i t a l i t y ; s i g n s of interest i n , o r c o g n i z a n c e of, other sections of this t r o u b l e d planet h a v e b e e n stead­ ily a n d papier-mâchéedly deprecated. T h e r u b b i s h bins of Harpers and the Century h a v e opened their lids n o t to n e w m o v e m e n t s b u t o n l y to the diluted imitations of n e w m o v e r s , e t c . La Wallonie, b e g i n n i n g as L'Elan Littéraire in 1885, endured seven y e a r s . It a n n o u n c e d f o r a full y e a r o n its c o v e r s t h a t its s e v e n t h y e a r w a s its last. A l b e r t M o c k e l h a s been g r a c i o u s e n o u g h t o call it " N o t r e Little Review à nous", a n d to c o m m e n d the m o t t o on our c o v e r , in the letter here f o l l o w i n g : 109, Avenue de Paris 8 mai 1918 La Malmaison Rueil Monsieur et cher confrere, M e r c i de v o t r e a i m a b l e envoi. L a Little Review m ' e s t s y m p a ­ thique à l'extreme. E n l a feuilletant j ' a i cru v o i r renaître ce t e m p s doré de f e r v e u r et de belle c o n f i a n c e où, a d o l e s c e n t e n c o r e , et tâton­ nant u n p e u dans l e s n e v e s r é g i o n s de l ' A r t , j e fondai à L i è g e n o t r e Little Review à nous, La Wallonie. Je r e t r o u v e j u s t e m e n t q u e l q u e s

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l i v r a i s o n s de cette r e v u e et j e v o u s les e n v o i e ; elles ont tout au m o i n s le mérite de la rareté. V o u s , m o n c h e r confrère, déjà ne m a r c h e z plus a tatons mais je v o u s s o u p ç o n n e de n'être pas aussi t e r r i b l e m e n t , aussi criminellement j e u n e que j e l'étais à cette époque-là. E t puis t r e n t e ans ont passé sur la littérature, et c'est de la folie d'hier qu'est faite la s a g e s s e d'aujourd'­ hui. A l o r s le S y m b o l i s m e naissait; g r a c e à la c o l l a b o r a t i o n de m e s a m i s , g r a c e à H e n r i de R é g n i e r et P i e r r e M . O l i n qui dirigèrent la r e v u e a v e c m o i , La Wallonie en fut l'un des premiers foyers. T o u t était r e m i s en q u e s t i o n . O n aspirait à p l u s de liberté à une f o r m e plus intense et plus c o m p l e t e plus m u s i c a l e et p u l s souple, à une expression n o u v e l l e de l'éternelle beauté. O n s'ingéniait, on c h e r c h a i t . . . T â ­ tonnements? C e r t e s et ils étaient inévitables. M a i s vif et ardent effort, d é s i n t é r e s s e m e n t a b s o l u , foi juvénile et s u r t o u t " N o c o m p r o ­ mise w i t h the public t a s t e " . . N ' y a-t-il p o i n t là q u e l q u e s traits de r e s s e m b l a n c e a v e c l ' o e u v r e que, v o u s t e n t e z aujourd'hui en A m é r i q u e , et, à t r e n t e années d'intervale, une s o r t e de c o u s i n a g e ? C ' e s t pourquoi m o n c h e r confrère, j ' a i lu a v e c t a n t de plaisir la Little Review dont v o u s a v e c eu lu g e n t i l l e s s e de m ' a d r e s s e r la c o l l e c t i o n . Croyez-moi sympathiquement vôtre, Albert Mockel. W i t h a n a t i v e m i s t r u s t of la belle phrase; of "temps dore", "fer­ veur", "belle confiance", etc., and w i t h an e q u a l l y n a t i v e s u p e r i o r i t y to a n y p u b l i c a t i o n not printed L A R G E , I o p e n e d La Wallonie - T h e g r o p i n g s , " t â t o n n e m e n t s " , to w h i c h M . M o c k e l s o m o d e s t l y refers, ap­ p e a r to h a v e included s o m e of the best w o r k of M a l l a r m é , of Stuart M e r r i l l , of M a x E l s k a m p and E m i l e V e r h a e r e n . V e r l a i n e c o n t r i b u t e d t o La Wallonie, D e R é g n i e r w a s one of its editors . . . M e n of since p o p u l a r fame — B o u r g e t , P i e r r e L o u y s , M a e t e r l i n c k — a p p e a r e d w i t h the r a r e r spirits. If e v e r the " a m a t e u r m a g a z i n e " in the sense of m a g a z i n e b y l o v e r s of a r t and letters, for l o v e r s of art and letters, in c o n t e m p t of the c o m m e r c e of l e t t e r s , has v i n d i c a t e d itself, that v i n d i c a t i o n w a s La Wallonie. V e r h a e r e n ' s " L e s P a u v r e s " ( w h i c h w e g a v e in our F e b r u ­ a r y issue) first a p p e a r e d t h e r e as the second part of s e r i e s : " C h a n s o n s des C a r r e f o u r s , " (Jan '92) . . . T h e E l s k a m p I h a v e j u s t q u o t e d ap­ p e a r e d t h e r e w i t h o t h e r p o e m s of M a x E l s k a m p . M a l l a r m é is rep­ r e s e n t e d b y the e x q u i s t e :

Sonnet S e s p u r s o n g l e s très haut dédiant leur o n y x , L ' A n g o i s s e ce minuit, soutient, l a m p a d o p h o r e , .

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M a i n t rêve vespéral brûle p a r le phénix Q u e ne recueille pas de cinéraire a m p h o r e S u r les crédences, au salon v i d e : nul p t y x A b o l i bibelot d'inanité s o n o r e , ( C a r le maître est allé puiser des p l e u r s au S t y x A v e c ce seul objet dont le Néant s'honore.) ;

M a i s p r o c h e la croisée au n o r d v a c a n t e , un or A g o n i s e selon peut-être le décor D e s l i c o r n e s ruant du feu c o n t r e une nixe, E l l e , défunte nue en le m i r o i r e n c o r Q u e , dans l'oubli fermé p a r le cadre, se fixe D e s c i n t i l l a t i o n s sitôt le s e p t u o r . —Mallarme

in "La

Wallonie"

Jan. 1889.

A n era of F r a n c o - A n g l o - A m e r i c a n i n t e r c o u r s e is m a r k e d b y his address t o :

The

W h i r l w i n d

P a s les rafales à p r o p o s D e rien c o m m e o c c u p e r la rue Sujette au noir v o l des c h a p e a u x ; M a i s une d a n s e u s e apparue T o u r b i l l o n de m o u s s e l i n e ou F u r e u r éparses en é c u m e s Q u e soulève p a r son g e n o u C e l l e même dont n o u s v é c û m e s P o u r tout, h o r m i s lui, r e b a t t u Spirituelle, ivre, i m m o b i l e F o u d r o y e r a v e c le tutu, S a n s se faire a u t r e m e n t de bile S i n o n fieur que puisse l'air D e sa j u p e éventer W h i s t l e r . -— Mallarme

in "Wallonie",

Nov-

1890

>

If I o w e A l b e r t M o c k e l a g r e a t debt in h a v i n g i l l u m i n a t e d m y e y e for E l s k a m p I o w e him no less the p l e a s u r e of one of M e r r i l l ' s m o s t délicats triumphs in the o p e n i n g of

54

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Ballet Pour Gustave Moreau E n c a s q u e de c r i s t a l rose les b a l a d i n e s , D o n t les p a s m e s u r é s a u x c o r d e s d e s k i n n o r s T i n t e n t sous les tissus de tulle roidis d'ors, E x u l t e n t de leurs y e u x pâles de x a l a d i n e s . T o i s o n s f a u v e s sur leurs lèvres i n c a r n a d i n e s , B r a s lourds de b r a c e l e t s b a r b a r e s , en e s s o r s M o e l l e u x v e r s la lueur lunaire d e s décors, E l l e s m u r m u r e n t en m a l v e i l l a n t e s s o u r d i n e s : " N o u s s o m m e s , ô m o r t e l s , d a n s e u s e s du Désir, S a l o m é s dont les c o r p s t o r d u s p a r le plaisir L e u r r e n t v o s heurs d ' a m o u r v e r s n o s p e r v e r s a r c a n e s . P r o s t e r n e z - v o u s a v e c des h o s a n n a s , c e s s o i r s ! C a r , s u r g i s s a n t dans d e s a u r o r e s d ' e n c e n s o i r s , S u r n o s c y m b a l e s nous f e r o n s t o n n e r v o s c r â n e s . " Stuart

Merrill

in "La Wallonie",

July

'98.

T h e p e r i o d w a s " g l a q u e " a n d " n a c r e " , it h a d its pet a n d too-petted a d j e c t i v e s , the handles for p a r o d y ; but it h a d a l s o a fine care for sound), for sound fine-wrought, not, m e r e s w i s h a n d r e s o n a n t rumble, not " D o l o r e s , O h o b b l e a n d k o b b l e D o l o r e s . O p e r f e c t o b s t r u c t i o n on t r a c k . " T h e p a r t i c u l a r sort of fine w o r k m a n s h i p s h o w n in this sonnet of M e r r i l l ' s h a s of late b e e n t o o m u c h let g o b y the b o a r d . H a n t o n is g e n t l y d i d a c t i c :

Le

Bon

Grain

" D é j à peinent m a i n t s m o i s s o n n e u r s dont la m é m o i r e est destinée à v i v r e . " Celestin Demblon. A m a n t s des r y t h m e s en des s t r o p h e s cadencées, D e s rimes rares aux splendeurs évocatoires, L a i s s a n t en e u x c o m m e un écho de leurs pensées, C o m m e un parfum de leurs s y m b o l e s en h i s t o i r e s : T e l s les poètes v o n t c h e r c h a n t en v r a i s g l a n e u r s L e s b l o n d s épis qui f o r m e r o n t leur riche écrin.

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55

Ils choisiront, c o m m e feraient les bons v a n n e u r s , P a r m i les blés passés au c r i b l e , le beau g r a i n . E t g e r m e r a cette s e m e n c e bien choisie,

E n t r e les roses et les l y s , p o u r devenir

R i c h e m o i s s o n de la fertile fantaisie.

L ' a r d e n t soleil de M e s s i d o r fera j a u n i r

L e s tiges souples d'une forte poésie

Q u i dresseront leurs fiers épis v e r s l'avenir!

— Edmond

Hanton

in "La Wallonie",

July

'88.

D e l a r o c h e is, at least in p a r t s , u t t e r l y i n c o m p r e h e n s i b l e , b u t t h e r e is an i n t e r e s t i n g e x p e r i m e n t in s o u n d - s e q u e n c e w h i c h b e g i n s :

Sonnets

Symphoniques

E n la l a n g u e u r accidentelle de ta d e n t e l l e où m e u r t m o n c o e u r U n profil p l e u r e

e t se v o i t t e l

en le p a s t e l

du divin l e u r r e

Q u ' o r végétal

de l y s s'enlise

au froid s a n t a l

Si n ' a g o n i s e

o c c i d e n t a l

qui s'adonise.

— Achille Delaroche

in "La Wallonie",

Feb. '89.

I do n o t k n o w that w e w i l l n o w be carried a w a y b y A l b e r t S a i n t Paul's chinoiserie, o r t h a t s h e - d e v i l s a r e so m u c h in fashion as w h e n Jules B o i s e x p e n d e d , c e r t a i n l y , s o m e u n d e n i a b l e e m o t i o n in a d d r e s s i n g them :

Pétales

de

Nacre

E n sa r o b e où s ' i m m o b i l i s e n t les oiseaux;, U n e é m e r g e des fleurs c o m m e une fleur p l u s g r a n d e .

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C o m m e une fleur p e n c h é e au sourire de l'eau, S e s m a i n s v i e n n e n t t r e s s e r la traînante g u i r l a n d e P o u r enchaîner le D r a g o n v e r t e — et de l é g e n d e ! Q u i de ses griffes d'or déchire l e s r o s e a u x , • L e s f a i s c e a u x de r o s e a u x : b a n d e r o l l e s et l a n c e s . E t quand le soir e m p o u r p r e r a le fier s i l e n c e D e la forêt e n j ô l e u s e de la D o u l e u r , S e s d o i g t s , f u s e a u x filant au r o u e t des m u r m u r e s L e s b e a u x a n n e a u x fleuris liant les fleurs a u x fleurs, S e s d o i g t s n ' a u r o n t saigné q u ' a u x épines p e u dures. — Albert

Pour Un — Tu Et

Saint-Paul

la

in "La Wallonie",

Jan. '91.

Demone

soir de joie, un soir d'ivresse, un s o i r de fête, E t quelle fête, et quelle i v r e s s e , et quelle j o i e ! — v i n s . L ' i m p é r i a l ennui s a c r a i t ta tête; tu m a r c h a i s dans un bruit d'armure et de soie.

T u dédaignas tous les D e ruban, de dentelle H e r m é t i q u e , * ta r o b e O u i , la fourrure seule

b i j o u x et l'oripeau et d'éphémère fleur. . . e m p r i s o n n a i t ta p e a u . a u t o u r de ta pâleur.

T u p a r u s . S o u s tes y e u x que le k h ' o l a b o m i n e , L e bal fut la l u g u b r e et dérisoire h i s t o i r e . L e s h o m m e s des p a n t i n s qu'un v i c e mène et mine;, L e s f e m m e s , c o e u r s et c o r p s fanés, - e t quel déboire! *

Laforgue?

Pour

la

Demone v.

E l l e est folle, c'est sûr, elle est folle la c h è r e ; E l l e m ' a i m e à n'en p a s douter, m a i s elle est folle, E l l e m ' a i m e et, c o m p a t i s s e z à m a misère, A v e c tous, a v e c t o u t e s , elle batifole. U n p a s s e . . . E l l e s'élance à lui, c o e u r présumé. E l l e s'offre et le p r o v o q u e , puis elle fuit V e r s ailleurs . . . si fidèle e n c o r e au seul-aimé, M a i s elle est folle et j e m'éplore dans la nuit.

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P o u r q u e l q u e amie a u x délicatesses félines,

E l l e g l i s s e v e r s les c a r e s s e s trop p r o f o n d e s .

. . . " T u v a s , folle, oublier mes r a n c o e u r s o r p h e l i n e s . "

M a i s sa lèvre p e n s i v e hésite a u x t o i s o n s b l o n d e s .

— Jules Bois in "La Wallonie",

Sept.

'90.

In p a r t w e m u s t take our r e a d i n g , of La Wallonie as a s t u d y of the state of s y m b o l i s m from 1885 to '92. R o d e n b a c h d i s p l a y s the o t h e r leaf of the d i p t y c h : the g e n r e , the h o m e l y W a l l o n landscape, m o r e familiar to the o u t e r w o r l d in V e r h a e r e n , but n o t I think, b e t t e r painted.

Paysages

Souffrants II.

A Emile Verhaeren. L à - b a s , tant de petits h a m e a u x sous l ' a v a l a n c h e D e la neige qui t o m b e a d o u c i s s a n t e et blanche, T a n t de v i l l a g e s , tant de c h a u m i n e s qui sont P o u r le reste d'un soir d o u c e m e n t a s s o u p i e s , C a r le n e i g e s'étend en de molles c h a r p i e s S u r les b l e s s u r e s des vieilles b r i g u e s qui n'ont Rien senti d'une S o e u r s u r leur r o u g e u r qui s a i g n e ! Mais, ô neige, c'est toi la S o e u r au halo blanc Q u i c o n s o l e s les m u r s m a l a d e s qu'on dédaigne E t metsun peu d'ouate a u x pierres s'éraflant. L a s ! rien ne guérira les c h a u m i n e s — aieuies Q u i m e u r e n t de l'hiver et m e u r e n t d'être s e u l e s . . . E t leurs âmes bientôt, au gré des v e n t s du nord. D a n s la fumée a u x lents départs, s e r o n t parties C e p e n d a n t que la n e i g e , à l'heure de leur m o r t , L e u r apporte ses rafraîchissantes h o s t i e s ! — Georges Rodenbach in "La Wallonie", Jan. '88. R o d e n b a c h is authentic. V i e l é - G r i m n w h o , as S t u a r t M e r r i l l , h a s a l w a y s been k n o w n in F r a n c e as "an A m e r i c a n " c o n t r i b u t e d l a r g e l y to La Wallonie. His " A u T o m b e a u d'Hélène" ends

H e l e n e M e v o i c i :

J'étais là dès hier, et dès sa veille,

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-Ailleurs, ici; T o u t e chair, a paré, un soir, m o n â m e vieille C o m m e léternité du désir q u e tu vêts. L a nuit est claire a u firmament . . . Regarde avec tes y e u x levés: V o i c i — c o m m e un tissu de pâle f e u fatal Q u i fait épanouir la fleur p o u r la flétrir — M o n v o i l e où t r a n s p a r a î t t o u t a s s o u v i s s e m e n t Q u i t'appelle à la v i e et qui t'en fait m o u r i r . L a nuit est claire au firmament v i t a l . . . M e s m y t h e s , tu les s a i s : Je suis fille du C y g n e , Je suis la lune dont s'exubèrent les m e r s Q u i m o n t e n t , t o m b e n t , se s o u l è v e n t ; E t c'est le flot de v i e e x u l t a n t e et prostrée, le flot des rêves, le flot des chairs, le f l u x et le r e f l u x de la v a s t e marée. M o n doute — on dit l ' E s p o i r — fait l'action i n s i g n e : Je suis reine de S p a r t e et celle-là de T r o i e , P a r m o i , la d o u l o u r e u s e e x i s t e n c e g u e r r o i e Je m e u s t o u t e inertie a u x l e u r r e s de m a j o i e , Hélène, Séléné, flottant de p h a s e en p h a s e . Je suis l'Inaccédée et la tierce H y p o s t a s e E t si j e rejetais, désir qui m ' y c o n v i e s , M o n v o i l e qui p r o m e t et refuse l ' e x t a s e , M a nudité de feu résorberait l e s V i e s . . . . . -—Viele-Griffin in "La Wallonie", Dec. ' 9 1 . {Complete number devoted to his poems). M o c k e l is r e p r e s e n t e d b y s e v e r a l p o e m s r a t h e r t o o l o n g to quote, — " C h a n t e f a b l e un peu n a i v e " , " L ' A t i t h é s e " , s u g g e s t i v e of the Gour¬ mont l i t a n y ; by prose c o m m e n t , by w o r k o v e r v a r i o u s p s e u d o n y m s . " A C l a i r M a t i n " is a suitable l e n g t h t o q u o t e , a n d it is b e t t e r perhaps to r e p r e s e n t h i m here b y it than b y f r a g m e n t s w h i c h I had first intended to cut from his l o n g e r p o e m s .

A

Clair

Matin

L a nuit au loin s'est effacée c o m m e les l i g n e s t r e m b l a n t e s d'un r ê v e ;

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la nuit s'est fondue au c o u r a n t du P a s s é et le j o u r attendu se lève. R e g a r d e z ! en les c o u r b e s m o l l e s des r i d e a u x U n e heure attendue, se révèle et ma fenêtre enfin s'éclaire, cristalline du g î v r e où se rit la lumière. U n e parure enfantine de n e i g e s habille là-bas d ' i m m o b i l e s e a u x et c'est les cortèges des fées n o u v e l l e s à tire d'ailes, à tire d'ailes du g r a n d lointain qui toutes r e v i e n n e n t a u x flocons de ce j o u r en n e i g e s qui s'épèle. D e s c o u r b e s de m e s r i d e a u x clairs — v o i c i ! c'est un parfum de c i e l ! — blanc des g u i r l a n d e s de l'hiver le j e u n e matin m'est apparu a v e c un v i s a g e de fiancée. D e s fées (ah je ne sais quelles m o r t e l l e s fées) jadis elles v i n r e n t t o u c h e r la paupière d'un être enfantin qui m o u r u t . Son âme, où se j o u a i t en s o n g e s la lumière, diaphane c o r o l l e epanouie au j o u r sou âme était v i v e de t o u t e l u m i è r e ! L u i , c o m m e un frère il suivait m a c o u r s e et nous allions en c o n f i a n t s de la m o n t a g n e à la vallée par les forêts des chênes, des hêtres — c a r eux, les ancêtres, ils ont le front g r a v e ils v i r e n t m a i n t s rêves des a u t r e s â g e s et nous parlent, très d o u c e m e n t , c o m m e nos P è r e s . M a i s v o y e z ! à m e s r i d e a u x pâles le matin g l i s s e des s o u r i r e s ; car la fiancèe est v e n u e car la fiancèe est v e n u e a v e c un simple et très d o u x v i s a g e , a v e c des m o t s q u ' o n n ' e n t e n d pas, en silence la F i a n c é e est a p p a r u e c o m m e une g r a n d e s o e u r de l'enfant qui m o u r u t ;

59

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L i t t l e

Review

et les hêtres, les chênes r o y a u x des forêts par d o u c e v o c a l i s e é g r e n a n t leur parure, les v o i x ressuscitées en la plaine s o n o r e et toute la forêt d ' a u r o r e q u a n d elle s e c o u e du crépuscule sa c h e v e l u r e , tout c h a n t e , bruit, pétille et r a y o n n e car la céleste Joie que la clarté délivre d'un h y m n e répercute a u x miroirs du futur le front pâle où scintille en étoiles le g i v r e . Albert

Mockel

in "La Wallonie",

Dernier

fascimile

'92.

I h a v e left G i d e and V a n L e r b e r g h e u n q u o t e d , u n m e n t i o n e d , but I have, I dare say, g i v e n p o e m s e n o u g h t o indicate the q u a l i t y and the s c o p e of the p o e t r y in La Wallonie. In p r o s e their c o u s i n a g e is p e r h a p s m o r e q u i c k l y apparent. A l ­ most the first s e n t e n c e I c o m e u p o n (I s u s p e c t it i s M o c k e l ' s ) runs as follows: "La Revue des deux Mondes publie un r o m a n de G e o r g e s O h n e t . ce qui ne s u r p r e n d r a personne.". T h i s is the p r o p e r tone to use w h e n d e a l i n g w i t h e l d e r l y muttonh e a d s ; w i t h the Harpers of y e s t e r y e a r . La Wallonie found it out in the e i g h t i e s . T h e s y m b o l i s t e m o v e m e n t flourished on it. A m e r i c a n let­ ters did not flourish, p a r t l y p e r h a p s for the l a c k of it, a n d for the lack of unbridled u n c o m p r o m i s i n g m a g a z i n e s run b y y o u n g m e n w h o did not c a r e for reputations surfaites, for e l d e r l y s t o d g e a n d stupidity. If w e turn to M o c k e l ' s death n o t i c e for Jules L a f o r g u e w e will find La Wallonie in '87 a w a k e to the v a l u e of c o n t e m p o r a r y achieve­ ment.

Jules

Laforgue

N o u s a p p r e n o n s a v e c une v i v e tristesse, la m o r t de Jules L a ­ f o r g u e , l'un des plus c u r i e u x poètes de la littérature a u x visées nou­ v e l l e s . N o u s l ' a v o n s désigné, jà d e u x m o i s : un T r i s t a n Corbière plus a r g e n t i n , m o i n s âpre . . . . E t telle est bien sa caractéristique. Sans le m o i n d r e s o u p ç o n d'imitation ou de r é m i n i s c e n c e s , Jules L a ­ f o r g u e a s a u v e g a r d é une originalité v i v a c e . S e u l e m e n t , cette origi­ nalité, par bien des saillies, t o u c h e à celle de T r i s t a n Corbière. C'est une m ê m e raillerie de la V i e et du M o n d e ; m a i s plus de s o m b r e et virile a m e r t u m e é m o u v a i t en l'auteur des A m o u r s Jaunes, dont cette pièce d o n n e r a q u e l q u e idée:

The

L i t t l e LE

61

Review

CRAPAUD

U n chant dans une nuit sans air . . . — L a lune p l a q u e en métal clair L e s découpures du v e r t s o m b r e . . . . . U n c h a n t ; c o m m e un écho, t o u t vif Enterré, là, s o u s l e m a s s i f . . . — C e se tait; v i e n s , c'est là, dans l ' o m b r e . . . Un crapaud! — P o u r q u o i c e t t e peur,

Près de m o i , t o n soldat fidèle!

V o i s - l e , poète tondu, s a n s aile,

R o s s i g n o l de la b o u e . . .

-— H o r r e u r ! — . . . Il chante. — H o r r e u r ! ! — H o r r e u r p o u r q u o i ? Vois-tu pas son oeil de lumière . . . . N o n , il s'en va, froid, sous sa pierre. B o n s o i r —- ce c r a p a u d - l à c'est m o i . Chez L a f o r g u e , il y a plus de g a i s a n s - s o u c i , de c o u p s de b a t t e de pierrot donnés à t o u t e s c h o s e s , plus de " v a i l l e - q u e - v a i l l e la v i e " , dit d'un air de m o q u e u s e résignation. Sa r a n c o e u r n'est pas e n c o m ­ brante. Il était un peu l'enfant indiscipliné qui rit à t r a v e r s les gron¬ deries, et fait la m o u e à sa f a n t a i s i e ; m a i s s o n h a u s s e m e n t d'épaules gamin, et ses " A p r è s t o u t ? " qu'il j e t t e c o m m e une c h i q u e n a u d e au visage du T e m p s , c a c h e n t t o u j o u r s au fond de son c o e u r un lac mé­ lancolique, un lac de t r i s t e s s e et d ' a m o u r s flétris, où v i e n t se refléter sa claire i m a g i n a t i o n . T é m o i n s c e s f r a g m e n t s pris a u x Complaintes: M o n c o e u r est une urne où j ' a i m i s c e r t a i n s défunts, O h ! chut, refrains de leurs b e r c e a u x ! et v o u s , p a r f u m s . .

.

.

.

. .

.,

M o n c o e u r est un N é r o n , enfant gâté d ' A s i e , Q u i d'empires de rêve en v a i n se r a s s a s i e . M o n c o e u r est un n o y é vidé d'âme et d ' e s s o r s , Qu'étreint la p i e u v r e S p l e e n en ses v e n t o u s e s d'or. C'est un feu d'artifice, h é l a s ! q u ' a v a n t la fête, A noyé sans r e t o u r l ' a v e r s e qui s'embête. M o n c o e u r est le t e r r e s t r e H i s t o i r e - C o r b i l l a r d Q u e traînent au néant l'instinct et le h a z a r d . M o n c o e u r est une h o r l o g e oubliée à d e m e u r e

62

The

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Q u i , m e s a c h a n t défunt, s'obstine à m a r q u e r

l'heure.

****** E t t o u j o u r s m o n c o e u r a y a n t ainsi déclamé, E n r e v i e n t à sa c o m p l a i n t e : A i m e r , être a i m é ! E t c e t t e pièce, d'une ironie c o n c e n t r é e :

COMPLAINTE

DES

BONS

MENAGES

L ' A r t sans poitrine m ' a trop l o n g t e m p s bercé dupe. Si ses l a b o u r s sont fiers, que ses blés d é c e v a n t s ! T i e n s , l a i s s e - m o i bêler t o u t a u x plis de ta j u p e Q u i fleure le c o u v e n t . L a Génie a v e c m o i , serf, a fait des m a n i è r e s ; T o i , j u p e , fais frou-frou, s a n s t'inquièter p o u r q u o i . . . • * * * * M a i s l ' A r t , c'est l ' I n c o n n u ! qu'on y d o r m e et s'y v a u t r e , O n ne peut p a s l'avoir c o n s t a m m e n t sur les b r a s ! E t bien, m é n a g e au v e n t ! S o y o n s L u i , E l l e et l ' A u t r e . E t puis n ' i n s i s t o n s

pas.

E t puis? et puis e n c o r e , un pied de destinée: Q u i m ' a i m a j a m a i s ? Je m'entête S u r ce refrain bien i m p u i s s a n t S a n s s o n g e r que j e suis bien bête D e m e faire du m a u v a i s s a n g :

nez

mélancolique

à la

Jules L a f o r g u e a publié o u t r e les Complaintes, un l i v r e t de v e r s dégingandés, d'une raillerie splénétique, à froid, c o m m e c e l l e qui sied a u x h o m m e s du N o r d . ' M a i s il a su y ajouter ce s a n s - f a c o n de c h o s e s dites à l'aventure, et tout un parfum de lumière a r g e n t i n e , c o m m e les r a y o n s de Notre-Dame la Lune qu'il célèbre. Le manque de p l a c e n o u s p r i v e d'en citer q u e l q u e s p a g e s . N o u s a v o n s lu a u s s i cette é t r a n g e N u i t d ' E t o i l e s : le Council Féerique, un a s s e z c o u r t p o è m e édité par la " V o g u e ; " d i v e r s articles de r e v u e , e n t r e l e s q u e l s c e t t e p a g e ensoleillée, parue dans la R e v u e I n d é p e n d a n t e : Pan et la Syrinx. E n f i n un n o u v e a u livre était a n n o n c é ; de la Pitié, de la Pitié!, déjà préparé p a r l'une des I n v o c a t i o n s du v o l u m e précédent, et d o n t n o u s c r o y o n s v o i r l'idée en ces v e r s des Complaintes: V e n d a n g e c h e z les A r t s e n f a n t i n s ; sois en fête D ' u n e fugue, d'un m o t , d'un ton, d'un air de tête.

The

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V i v r e et p e s e r selon le B e a u , le Bien, le V r a i ? O parfums, ô r e g a r d s , ô fois! soit, j ' e s s a i e r a i . . . . V a , que ta seule étude Soit de vivre sans but,, fou de mansuétude — - — Albert Mockel in "La Wallonie",

1887.

I have quoted but sparingly, and I have t h o u g h t q u o t a t i o n better than c o m m e n t , but despite the double m e a g r e n e s s I think I have g i v e n e v i d e n c e that La Wallonie w a s w o r t h e d i t i n g . I t b e g a n as L'Elan Littéraire w i t h 16 p a g e s , and an edition of 200 copies; it should convince a n y b u t the m o s t stupid t h a t size is not the criterion of p e r m a n e n t value, and that a small m a g a z i n e m a y outlast m u c h bulkier printings. A f t e r turning the p a g e s of La Wallonie, p e r h a p s after r e a d i n g even this so brief e x c e r p t , one is r e a d y to see some sense in e v e n so lyric a phrase as " t e m p s doré, de ferveur et de belle c o n f i a n c e " . In their seven y e a r s ' run these editors, one at least b e g i n n i n g in his "teens", had published a g o o d deal of the best of V e r h a e r e n , had published w o r k b y E l s k a m p , M e r r i l l , Griffin, L o u y s , M a e t e r l i n c k , Verlaine, V a n Lerberghe, Gustave Kahn, Moreas, Quillard, André Gide; had been j o i n e d in their editing b o a r d b y D e R é g n i e r , ( r e m e m ­ ber that they edited in L i è g e , not in P a r i s ; t h y w e r e n o t at the h u b of the universe, b u t in the heart of F r e n c h B e l g i u m ) ; t h e y h a d n o t made a n y c o m p r o m i s e . P e r m a n e n t literature, and the s e e d s of per­ manent literature, had g o n e t h r o u g h p r o o f - s h e e t s in their office. T h e r e is perhaps no g r e a t e r p l e a s u r e in life, and t h e r e c e r t a i n l y can have been no g r e a t e r enthusiasm than to h a v e b e e n y o u n g and to have been part of such a g r o u p of w r i t e r s w o r k i n g in f e l l o w s h i p at the b e g i n n i n g of such a course, of s u c h a series of c o u r s e s as w e r e implicated in La Wallonie. If the date is insufficiently indicated b y M a l l a r m é ' s allusion to Whistler, w e m a y turn to the art n o t e s : "eaux-fortes de M l l e M a r y C a s s a t t . . L u c i e n P i s s a r o , S i s l e y . . . lithographies de F a n t i n - L a t o u r . . . . O d i l l o n R e d o n . " "J'ai été un peu à P a r i s , v o i r B u r n e J o n e s , M o r e a u , D e l a c r o i x . . . la danse du ventre, et les a d o r a b l e s J a v a n a i s e s . C ' e s t m o n m e i l l e u r souvenir, ces filles "très p a r é e s " dans l'étrange d e m i - j o u r de leur case et qui tournent l e n t e m e n t dans la stridente m u s i q u e a v e c de si énigmatique inflexions de mains et de si s o u r i a n t e s p o u r s u i t e s les y e u x dans les y e u x ".

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P r o s e p o e t r y , that doubtful c o n n e c t i o n , appears at times even to a d v a n t a g e : "Séléné, toi l ' e s s e n c e et le r e g a r d des infinis, ton m a l nous se­ rait la félicité suprême. O v i e n s à n o u s , T a n i t , V i e r g e T a n i t , fleur métallique épanouie a u x plaines c é l e s t e s ! " — Mockel.

THE

R E A D E R

CRITIC

Danish Consulate, Paris: Little Review . . . . desperate c a m o u f l a g e , n o b l e but a t t e m p t to m a k e it l o o k as if A m e r i c a had an intellectual life.

futile

S. A., Nèuilly, Seine et Oise: Je v o u s r e m e r c i e de m ' a v o i r révélé L a f o r g u e que j e connaissais s e u l e m e n t par les e x t r a i t s publiés dans la p r e m i e r e A n t h o l o g i e en I v o l u m e p a r V a n B e v e r et L e a u t a u d .

The

Audience

" A r t s h o u l d c o n c e a l art", said the p a r r o t . " A r t is e n n o b l i n g " , said the p a r r o t . " A r t is the u l t i m a t e c o m b u s t i o n of the s o c i a l - c o n s c i o u s n e s s of the p r o l e t a r i a t into the fine f l o w e r of p e n u l t i m a t e c u l t u r e ; it is the e x p r e s s i o n of the s o u l - w a v e into the infinite of the u n u n d e r s t a n d a b l e j e ne sais quoi", said the parrotDamn the parrot! D a m n the p a r r o t , a l t h o u g h there is a faint dilutation of v e r i t y in each of t h e s e t h r e e r e m a r k s .

The

"Heroic

Deads"

Stanislaw Szukalski, Chicago : . . . . to His Brightness the P o u n d ! I read y o u r c r i t i c i s m on m y d r a w i n g s p r i n t e d in " L . R." . . . Y o u r r e m a r k s are Very g o o d a n d I a g r e e w i t h y o u to each w o r d , h o w e v e r y o u e v e n did n o t s a y all . . . o n l y o b s e r v a t i o n s w e r e so o b v i o u s that after h e a r i n g m u c h of h e r o i c deads I am g r e a t l y dis­ a p p o i n t e d to see H e r a c l e s s t r a i n i n g his divine "I c a n " on c r a c k i n g nut . . . H e p u s h e d h i m s e l f a g a i n s t w a l l — b u t fell t h r o u g h for it w a s m a d e of tissue paper. Y o u r applauding

Szukalski.

THE

STRADIVARIUS OF

313

FIFTH NEW

PIANOS

AVENUE YORK

E L K I N MATHEWS, Publisher and Vendor of Choice and Rare Editions in Belles Lettres. 4a Cork Street, London W . 1. Note to Collectors Early editions of M r . Pound's books, as follows: A Lume Spento (Antonelli, Venice, 1908). Last copy sold at £8. Quinzaine (Pollock, 1908), unobtainable. Quinzaine (my edition), unobtainable. Personne (1909), published at 2/6, a few copies (postage included) $1.25. Exultations (1909), published at 2/6, a few copies (postage in­ cluded) $1.25. Canzoni ( 1 9 1 1 ) , not to be reissued. $1.00 (postage included). Personae and Exultations, in one volume, 1 9 1 3 ; none remain. Canzoni and Ripostes, in one volume, 1 9 1 3 . 25 copies remain. $1.25 (postage included). Lustra (private edition, 124 pages), 1916, with photogravure. 21 copies offered at $3.00 (postage included). Lustra (public edition with photogravure), 1 1 6 pages, $1.50, postage included, binding in heavy canvass.

Some features of the November number:

Poems by Andre Spire Nine poems by Ezra Pound A review of H . D.'s Choruses from Euripides A story by Ben Hecht Imaginary Letters The Tariff and Copyright "Pounding Ezra" by Ben Hecht December will be another American number.

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