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Title: The Little Review, November 1917 (Vol. 4, No. 7)
Author: Various
Editor: Margaret C. Anderson
Release date: October 4, 2026 [eBook #79714]
Language: English
Original publication: Chicago, New York: Apparently none other than the Editor (see above)., 1922
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LITTLE REVIEW, NOVEMBER 1917 (VOL. 4, NO. 7) ***
THE LITTLE REVIEW
THE MAGAZINE THAT IS READ BY THOSE
WHO WRITE THE OTHERS
_Margaret Anderson_, Publisher
NOVEMBER, 1917
Poems of Li Po translated by Maxwell Bodenheim
Sketches jh.
Hanrahan’s Oath Lady Gregory
Drawing Max Weber
Carving Walt Kuhn
Drawing Marie Laurencin
Drawing Henri Gaudier-Brzeska
Drawing Andre D. de Segonzac
Engraving Arthur Davies
The Starry Sky Wyndham Lewis
Drawing Jules Pascin
The Soul’s Awakening J. R. White
Imaginary Letters, VI. Ezra Pound
The Raised Arms translated from De Gourmont by
Stéphane Boecklin
To Subscribers
Copyright, 1917, by Margaret Anderson.
MARGARET ANDERSON, Editor
EZRA POUND, Foreign Editor
24 WEST SIXTEENTH STREET, NEW YORK
15 cents a copy $1.50 a year
Entered as second-class matter at P. O., New York, N. Y.
THE LITTLE REVIEW
VOL. IV. NOVEMBER, 1917 No. 7.
CHINESE POEMS
Translated from the Chinese of Li Po
by Sasaki and Maxwell Bodenheim
Whose Daughter?
Fling me harp-notes almost soundless,
From your hidden white window.
Your coming is like a flower petal
Wavering down from the sky.
Walk after me, across the water
Like a drifting flower.
You sing of So-land, and speak of Ko-land.
You seem older than you are
And that opens my love.
I take your hand and we walk past many springs.
A Woman Speaks
The keenest of swords plunges into leaping water
And cannot cut it.
My love for you is like that sword,
But winds around your heart.
After you go, the weeds shrouding my garden-gate
Fade, and become the ground of autumn.
But spring slips back from your foot-marks
Prisoned in the soft ground, about the gate.
And my heart becomes like a peach-blossom
On a tree that grows from the bottom of a shallow well.
The peach-blossom opens in a smile
But why, since he has gone?
He was like a quick moon
That gave but one moon-strand.
I look down at the water in the well
But I cannot recognize myself
For I am shrivelled by the lack of him.
Veil-Skirt
Her skirt of veils is like curling water
Covered with golden nets of frail dust.
How can I drop to the bottom of her heart?
I cannot refuse a thousand cups of green wine.
Her red cheeks sink into me, and make me dead.
I Go to Visit a Semi-God
A group of mountains, like blue screens,
Scrape the sky.
Nothing is written upon the blue screens.
I walk over them, pushing apart the clouds
And search for a slender road.
I lean against a tree
And hear rushing springs, and see warm flowers.
A green cow lies amid the warm flowers
And white cranes sleep on the tops of pine trees.
Twilight rises from a lake below the mountains,
And meets a cold haze from the mountain-tops.
SKETCHES
jh.
White
I.
Sharp, empty air.... Out of the black mouths of engines white smoke
rises on thin stems into white ghosts of ancient trees; together they
rise into ghosts of ancient forests, sway and surge and are gone again a
million years.
II.
The hot air of the day stays in the city until night. The long slope of
my roof presses the heat down upon me. Soon it will rain. But there is
no rest in me: my heart is wandering too far. My friends may still be in
the city, but I do not seek them. I go to the animals in the park.
Within their enclosures black shadows of camels lie in the darkness. A
great white camel broods in the moonlight, apart from the rest. His
lonely eyes are closed and he moves his head slowly from side to side on
his long neck, swaying in pain, searching in a dream for his lost world.
I have seen a Norwegian ship carrying its carved head through the waters
of a fjord with such a movement....
Now the high clouds cover the moon. Out on the lake a wind assails the
layers of heat. A white peacock sits in a tree, aloof, elegant,
incorruptible.... A light green spirit.... Across the first thunder he
lifts his long white laugh at us like a maniac.
Void
I cannot live long in your city: it has no zones of pain for me where I
may rest, no places where old joys dwell and I may suffer. It is as
empty for me as the honeycomb cliff cities of the Southwest. For I shall
not know love again in this or any place.
HANRAHAN’S OATH
Lady Gregory
MARY GILLIS
MARGARET ROONEY
OWEN HANRAHAN
COEY
MRS. COEY
MICHAEL FEENEY
SCENE: A wild and rocky place. Door of stone cabin to LEFT, that
is the bed of a Saint.
MARY GILLIS (coming from right).—Did you get any tidings of him, Margy?
MARGARET ROONEY.—All I heard was he was seen going over the scalp of the
hill at daybreak.
MARY GILLIS.—Bad cess to him! Why wouldn’t he stop in the house last
night beyond any other night?
MARGARET ROONEY.—You know well it was going to the preaching of that
strange friar put disturbance in his mind.
MARY GILLIS.—Take care is he listening to him yet.
MARGARET ROONEY.—He is not. I went in the archway of the chapel and took
a view. The missioner is in it yet, giving out masses and benedictions
and rosaries and every whole thing. But as to Owen Hanrahan, there was
no sign of him in it at all.
MARY GILLIS.—It is the drink houses I went searching for him.
MARGARET ROONEY.—He was never greatly given to drink.
MARY GILLIS.—If he isn’t, he is given to company and he’d talk down all
Ireland.
MARGARET ROONEY.—So he is a terror for telling stories, and it is
yourself made your own profit by it. It is his gift of talk brought the
harvesters, would live and die with him, to your house this five weeks
past.
MARY GILLIS.—Yourself that is begrudging me that, where you want to keep
him to yourself.
MARGARET ROONEY.—So I would keep him, I to find him. I wouldn’t wish him
to go travelling. He had his enough of hardship. There is no great stay
in him.
MARY GILLIS.—There are but the two roads for him to travel from the
scalp, over and hither. He to come this way, believe me I’ll bring him
back to the town.
MARGARET ROONEY.—He wouldn’t go with you.
MARY GILLIS.—I have a word will bring him, never fear.
MARGARET ROONEY.—What word is that?
MARY GILLIS.—What was it he was giving out to the two of us ere
yesterday, the time he came back after having drink taken at the
sailor’s wake?
MARGARET ROONEY.—I don’t keep in mind what he said.
MARY GILLIS.—You, maybe, remember the story he gave us of one Feeney
that he was with at a mountain still and that made an assault on a
gauger.
MARGARET ROONEY.—Feeney, that was the name—, but what signifies that?
MARY GILLIS.—That’s right. I’ll make a spancel from that story will
bring him into hiding in the Currough.
MARGARET ROONEY.—You might not. It’s little you know the twists of a
poet’s mind. He to have the fit of wandering, it is round the wide world
he might go.
MARY GILLIS.—Hurry on now, let you go the lower road and see will you
bring him any better than myself. (pushes her).—Go on now, he might pass
and go on unknownst to you!
MARGARET ROONEY.—I’ll not be three minutes going down the hill. (Goes).
MARY GILLIS (sitting down).—That you may! It’s the hither road he is
coming!
HANRAHAN (coming in, head down).—Isn’t it a terrible place we are living
in and terrible the wickedness of the whole world!
MARY GILLIS.—What is it ails you, Owen Hanrahan?
HANRAHAN.—People to be breaking all the laws of God and giving no heed
to the beyond!
MARY GILLIS.—It is likely the preaching of the friar put those thoughts
athrough your head.
HANRAHAN.—Murders and robberies and lust and neglecting the mass!
MARY GILLIS.—Ah, come along home with me to the dinner. You are fasting
this good while back.
HANRAHAN.—What way can people be thinking of gluttony, and the terrors
of the grave before them.
MARY GILLIS.—Come on now to the little house, and the drop of drink will
put such thoughts from your mind.
HANRAHAN.—Drink! That was another of them! Seven deadly sins in all!
MARY GILLIS.—What call has a poet the like of you to go listening to a
missioner stringing talk? You, that is so handy at it yourself.
HANRAHAN.—A lovely saint he was! He came from foreign. To let fall a
drop of scalding water on your foot would be bad he said, or to lay your
hand on a hot coal on the floor; but, to die with any big sin on our
soul, it will be burning for ever and ever, and that burning will be
worse than any burning upon earth. To say that he did, rising up his
hand. The great fear he put on me was of eternity. Oh, he was a darling
man!
MARY GILLIS.—Ah, that is the way that class to be beckoning flames at
the people, or what way would they get their living? Come along now
where you will have company and funning.
HANRAHAN.—Leave touching me! I have no mind to be put away from my holy
thoughts. Three big mastiffs, their red gullets open and burning the
same as three wax candles!
MARY GILLIS.—Come along, I tell you, to the comforts of the town.
HANRAHAN.—Get away, you hag, before I’ll lay a hand on you!
MARY GILLIS.—After the good treatment I gave you this five weeks past,
beyond any lodger was in the house!
HANRAHAN.—Be off, or I’ll do you some injury!
MARY GILLIS.—It’s kind for you do an injury on me, the same as you did
on the man that was sent before the judge!
HANRAHAN.—Who was that?
MARY GILLIS.—Feeney that stuck down the gauger.
HANRAHAN.—Anyone didn’t see who did it! He was brought before no judge!
MARY GILLIS.—You didn’t know he was taken and charged and brought to the
Tuam Assizes?
HANRAHAN.—They could have no proof against him. It was a dark cloudy
night.
MARY GILLIS.—That is what they are saying. It was in no fair way it was
made known who did it.
HANRAHAN.—Ah what did he do but put up his fist this way ... and the
gauger was standing where you are supposing ... and there was a naggin
in poor Feeney’s hand (stoops for a stone)—and there lit a stroke on him
(strikes as if at her)—It’s hard say was it that knocked him or was it
the Almighty God.
MARY GILLIS.—There is another thing the people are saying.
HANRAHAN.—What is that?
MARY GILLIS.—They are saying there was another man along with Feeney at
the bog-still.
HANRAHAN.—What harm if they are saying that?
MARY GILLIS.—It will be well for that man not to be rambling the
countryside, but to stop here in the shelter of the town where it is not
known. It is likely his name is given out the baronies of Galway and to
the merings of County Mayo.
HANRAHAN.—Little I care they to know I was in it. What could they lay to
my charge?
MARY GILLIS.—You had drink taken. You have no recollection what you said
in the spree-house in Monivea. It is the name of an informer you have
gained in those districts, where you gave out the account of Feeney’s
deed, in the hearing of spies or of Government men.
HANRAHAN.—That cannot be so! An informer! That would be a terrible
story!
MARY GILLIS.—A poor case they are saying, you to be roaming the country
free and Feeney under chains through your fault.
HANRAHAN.—An informer! I’ll go give myself up in his place! I’ll swear
it was I did it! Maybe I did too. I am certain I hit him a hit or kick
that loosed the patch on my shoe. (holds foot up). I’ll go set Feeney
free.
MARY GILLIS.—You cannot do that. He is gone to his punishment where he
was convicted of assault and attempt to kill.
HANRAHAN.—In earnest?
MARY GILLIS.—It is much he escaped the death of the rope. It is to send
him to transportation they did.
HANRAHAN.—The Lord save us!
MARY GILLIS.—Sent out in the ship with thieves and vagabones to
Australia or Van Dieman’s Land, to be yoked in traces along with blacks
driving a plough for the over-Government.
HANRAHAN.—Transported and judged! It is a bad story for me that judgment
is! And to be brought about through me giving out too much talk!
MARY GILLIS.—Ah come along and get a needleful of porter and we’ll have
a good evening in the town.
HANRAHAN.—There will be no good evening or good morrow come to me for
ever! Let me run to take his place in the ship and in the chains.
MARY GILLIS.—Sure it sailed away yesterday. It is ploughing his way
across the green ocean Michael Feeney should be at this hour.
HANRAHAN.—I’ll go to judgment all the same! They’ll set me out after him
and set him free!
MARY GILLIS.—Not a fear of them, and they having him in their hand. And
it’s likely anyway the ship might go down in some storm.
HANRAHAN.—To have sent a man to his chastisement through chattering!
That is not of the nature of friendship. That is surely one of the seven
deadly sins!
MARY GILLIS.—Sure there is nothing standing to you only your share of
talk.
HANRAHAN.—It is that was my ruin! It would be better for me be born
without it, the same as a blessed sheep! It is the sin of the tongue is
surely the blackest of all! A man that died with drink in him, the
missioner was saying, the soul would sooner stop in torment a thousand
years than come back to the body that made it so unclean. And surely my
soul would think it worse again, to be coming under the sway of a tongue
that had it steered to the mouths of the burning mountain, that are said
to be the door of hell!
MARY GILLIS.—Ah it is your own talk had always pleasantness on it—come
on now—the people love to see you travelling through the town.
HANRAHAN.—It is the tongue that does be giving out lies and spreading
false reports and putting the weighty word on a neighbour, till a
character that was as white as lime will turn to be black as coal!
MARY GILLIS.—No but good words yourself does be putting out. Whoever you
praised was well praised.
HANRAHAN.—A cross word in this house, and a quarrel out of it in the
next house, and fighting in the streets from that again, till the whole
world wide is at war. The man that would make a gad for the tongue would
be out far beyond Alexander that laid one around all the kingdoms of the
world!
MARY GILLIS.—It is the roads would be lonely without the sound of your
own songs.
HANRAHAN.—To make silence in the roads for ever would be a better task
than every Orpheus, and he playing harpstrings to the flocks!
MARY GILLIS.—It is not yourself could keep silence in the world without
you would be a ghost.
HANRAHAN.—My poor Feeney! He that wore out the night making still
whiskey would put courage into armies of men, and the hares of the
mountain gathered around him looking on. I could cry down my eyes, he at
this time in the black hole of a vessel you couldn’t hardly go into head
and heels, among rats and every class of ravenous thing! Have you ere a
knife about you or a sword or a dagger, that you’ll give it to me to do
my penance, till I’ll cut the tongue out from my head and bury it under
the hill!
MARY GILLIS.—Ah, come along and do your penance the same as any other
one, saying a rosary alongside your bed.
HANRAHAN.—I’ll go no more into the room with lodgers and strangers and
dancers and youngsters enjoying music. I will out my time in this cabin
of a saint, shedding tears unknownst to the world, hearing no word and
speaking no word will be putting my repentance astray. There is great
safety in silence! It will cut off the world and all of sins at the one
stroke.
MARY GILLIS.—It is not yourself could keep from the talk without you
would be dumb.
HANRAHAN.—So I will be dumb and live in dumbness, if I have my mind laid
to it! I will make an oath with myself (puts up hands) by the red heat
of anger and by the hard strength of the wind I will speak no word to
any living person through the length of a year and a day! I will earn
Feeney’s pardon doing that! I’ll be praying for him on all my beads!
MARY GILLIS.—Ah, before the year is out he will have his escape made, or
maybe have done some crime will earn him punishment, whether or no
without any blame upon yourself. It will fail you to stop in this
wilderness. You were always fond of life.
HANRAHAN (sitting down and taking off boots).—Bring away my shoes to
some safe place to the end of my penance, that I will not be tempted to
break away! Mind them well till I will be wanting them again.
MARY GILLIS.—It is a big fool you are and a cracked thief and a
blockhead and a headstrong ignorant man!
HANRAHAN.—I am not in this place for wrastling! It is good back answers
I could give you, if it wasn’t that I am dumb!
MARY GILLIS.—I’m in no dread of your answers! I’d put curses out of my
own mouth as quick as another the time I would be vexed!
HANRAHAN.—Get out now of this! The devil himself couldn’t do his
repentance with the noise and the chat of you! (Threatens her).
MARY GILLIS.—Whisper now, one thing only and I’ll go.
HANRAHAN.—Hurry on so, and say what is it.
MARY GILLIS.—What place did you put the keg of still-whiskey you were
saying you brought away at the time Feeney ran, the gauger being
stretched on the bog?
HANRAHAN.—What way can I whisper it, and I under an oath to be dumb!
MARY GILLIS.—Is it in the bog you hid it? Or within a ditch or a drain.
Let you beckon your hand at me, the time I’ll give out the right place
and you’ll not break your promise and your oath. Under a dung-heap
maybe.... Let you make now some sign....
HANRAHAN. (seizing stick and rushing at her).—Sign is it? Here’s signs
for you! My grief that I cannot break my oath!
MARY GILLIS (who has rushed off, looking back).—Your oath is it? You may
believe me telling you, it will fail you for one day only to keep a gad
upon your tongue. (Goes).
(HANRAHAN shakes fist at her and sits down. Rocks himself and
moans.
A man with basket or sack of seaweed comes in and looks at him
timidly).
COEY.—Fine day! (HANRAHAN takes no notice). Fine day! (louder)—Fine day,
the Lord be praised!... (HANRAHAN scowls) What is on you? FINE DAY! Is
it deaf you are.... Is it maybe after taking drink you are? To put your
head down in the spring well below would maybe serve you. (HANRAHAN
shakes head indignantly).—Is it that you are after being bet? A puck on
the poll is apt to put confusion in the mind. (Another indignant shake)
Tell me out now, what is on you or what happened you at all?
_HANRAHAN gets up. Gives some dumb show as he did to MARY GILLIS,
stoops, picks up stone, rushes as if to threaten COEY._
COEY.—The Lord be between us and harm! It is surely a wild man is in it!
(He throws down basket and rushes off right).
HANRAHAN.—Ah, what is it ails you? That you may never be better this
side of Christmas.... What am I doing? Is it speaking in spite of myself
I am? What at all can I do! I to speak, I am breaking my oath; and I not
to speak, I have the world terrified. (sits down dejectedly, then
starts)—What is that? A thorn that ran into me ... a thorn bush.... It
is. Heaven put it in my way. There is no sin or no harm to be talking
with a bush, that is a fashion among poets. Oh, my little bush, it is a
saint I am out and out! It is a man without blame I will be from this
time! To go through the whole gamut of the heat and of the frost with no
person to be annoying till I get a fit of talk and be letting out wicked
words, that is surely the road will reach to Paradise. It is a right
plan I made and a right penance I put on myself. As I converse now with
yourself, the same as with a living person, so every living person I may
hold talk with, and my penance ended, I will think them to be as
harmless as a little whitethorn bush. It is a holy life I will follow,
and not to be annoyed with the humans of the world that do be prattling
and prating, carrying lies here and there, putting trouble in people’s
mind, lavish in tale-bearing and talk! It is a great sin from God
Almighty to be ballyragging and drawing scandal on one another, rising
quarrels and rows! I declare to honest goodness the coneys and the hares
are ahead of most Christians on the road to heaven where they have not
the power to curse and damn or to do mischief through flatteries and
chatterings and coaxings and jestings and jokings and riddles and fables
and fancies and vanities and backbitings and mockeries and mumblings and
grumblings and treachery and false reports! It is free I am now from the
screechings and vain jabberings of the world in this holy quiet place
that is all one nearly with the blessed silence of heaven! (He takes
beads).
(COEY and MRS. COEY come on and look at him from behind).
COEY.—A wild man I tell you he is, wild and shy.
MRS. COEY.—Wording a prayer he would seem to be, letting deep sighs out
of himself. A wild man would be apt to be a pagan or an unbeliever.
COEY.—I tell you he rose up and made a plunge at me and ruz a stone over
my poll. If it wasn’t for getting the bag I left after me, I couldn’t go
anear him. It’s a good thought I had taking out of it the two shillings
I got for the winkles I sold from the strand, and giving them into your
own charge.... Take care would he turn and make a run at me!
MRS. COEY.—He is no wild man but a spoiled priest or a crazed saint or
some thing of the sort.
COEY.—Striving to put curses on me he was, but it failed him to bring
them out. It might be that he was born a dummy into the world, and
drivelling from his birth out.
(HANRAHAN listens).
MRS. COEY.—Would you say now would he be Cassidy Bawn, the troubled
Friar, that the love of a woman put astray in his wits?
COEY.—A half-fool I would say him to be. But it might be that he has a
pain in the jaw or a tooth that would want to be drawn. Or is it that
the tongue was cut from him by some person had a cause against him.
(HANRAHAN turns indignantly and puts tongue out).
MRS. COEY.—He is not maimed or ailing. It is long I was coveting to see
such a one that would have power to show miracles and wonders or to do
cures with a gospel or put away the wildfire with herbs.
COEY.—Let him show a miracle or do something out of the way, and I’ll
believe it.
MRS. COEY.—If he does, it is to myself he will show it. I am the most
one is worthy.
COEY.—Have a care. He is about to turn around.
MRS. COEY (sitting down).—Let me put a decent appearance on myself
before he will take notice of me. (begins putting on boots).
COEY.—A pair of shoes! What way did they come into your hand?
MRS. COEY.—It is that I found them on the road....
COEY.—They are belonging so to some person will come looking for them.
MRS. COEY.—They are not but to myself they belong ... it is that they
were sent to me by messenger.
COEY.—And who would bestow you shoes, you that never put a shoe or a
boot on you and snow and frost 3 feet on the ground! and you after going
barefoot through the snow and the frost of two score of years!
MRS. COEY.—There’s plenty to bestow them to me. Haven’t I a first cousin
went harvesting out in England where there is maybe shovel fulls of
gold.
(HANRAHAN comes across quickly, seizes boots angrily and takes
them away, shaking his fist at her).
COEY (retreating).—There is coming on him a fit of frenzy! Run now. Let
you run!
(HANRAHAN seizes and shakes her).
MRS. COEY (on her knees).—Oh leave your hand off of me, blessed father!
I’ll confess all! Oh it is a miracle is after being worked on me!
(Another shake) A miracle to put shame on me where I told a lie, may God
forgive me! on the head of the boots!
COEY.—I was thinking it was lying you were.
MRS. COEY.—How well he knew it, the dear and the holy man! He that can
read the hidden thoughts of my heart as the same as if written on my
brow!
COEY.—Is it to steal them you did?
MRS. COEY (to HANRAHAN).—Do not look at me so terrible wicked, and I’ll
make my confession the same as if it was the Bishop in it!
COEY.—Is it that I am wedded with a thief and a robber?
MRS. COEY.—I am not a thief but to tell a lie I did, laying down that I
got them from my first cousin, where I bought them from a woman going
the road.
COEY.—That’s another lie, where would you get the money?
MRS. COEY.—Your own two shillings I gave for them that you put in my
care a while ago. Take the shoes, holy saint, for I’ll lay no hand on
them any more. There never was the like of it of a start ever taken out
of me.
COEY.—You asked a miracle and you got a miracle you’ll not forget from
this day. (takes off hat) I’ll never go against such things from this
out. A good saint he is, by hell!
(MARGARET ROONEY comes on, HANRAHAN catching sight of her flings
down boots and crouches behind bush).
MARGARET ROONEY.—Did you see anyone passing the road?
COEY.—Not a one.
MARGARET ROONEY.—I am in search of a friend I have, that is gone
travelling the road.
MRS. COEY.—There is not a one in this place but the blessed saint is
saying out prayers abroad under the bush.
MARGARET ROONEY.—I knew no saint in this place. What sort is he?
COEY.—You would say him to be a man that has not a great deal of talk.
MRS. COEY.—He is a great saint; he is so saintly as that there couldn’t
be saintlier than what he is. He living in the wilderness on nuts and
the berries of the bush, and his two jaws being bloomy all the time.
COEY.—He to be known, the people will come drawing from this to Dublin
till he will have them around him in droves.
MARGARET ROONEY (seizing boots).—What way did you get those shoes?
COEY.—It was the saint threw them there in that place.
MARGARET ROONEY.—What happened the man that owned them?
MRS. COEY (pointing to bush).—Sorra one of me knows. Go crave to the
saint under the bush to give out knowledge of that. It’s himself should.
He beckoned the hand at me a while ago and told me all that ever I did.
MARGARET ROONEY (Goes to back of bush but HANRAHAN moves round from
her). I ask your pardon father, but will you tell me what happened the
man I am in search of and what way did his shoes come in this place? I
am certain he would not part them unless he would be plundered and
robbed. Tell me where can I find him.
MRS. COEY.—Do not be annoying him now. It is likely he is holding talk
with heaven.
MARGARET ROONEY (to COEY).—It is maybe you yourself took the shoes.
[Illustration: Drawing by Max Weber]
[Illustration: Carving by Walt Kuhn]
[Illustration: Drawing by Marie Laurencin]
[Illustration: Drawing by Henri Gaudier-Brzeska]
[Illustration: Drawing by Andre D. Segonzac]
[Illustration: Engraving by Arthur B. Davies]
[Illustration: The Starry Sky, by Wyndham Lewis]
[Illustration: Drawing by Jules Pascin]
COEY.—Let you stop putting a stain on my character. I that never put a
farthing astray on anyone!
MARGARET ROONEY.—What at all can I do to know is he living or dead. Or
is he gone walking the round world barefoot!
MRS. COEY.—Hurry on and get news from that man is under the bush before
there might angels come would give him a horn and rise him through the
sky!
MARGARET ROONEY.—Saint or no saint, I’ll drag an answer out of him!
(She goes to him, he moves away from her round bush. She takes
hold of his shoulders).
COEY.—Ah there will thunder fall on her!
(HANRAHAN tries to escape but MARGARET ROONEY holds him and looks
at his face).
MARGARET ROONEY.—Is it you, Owen, is in it! Oh what is it happened at
all!
COEY.—Will you hearken to her speaking to him as if he was some common
man.
MARGARET ROONEY.—Tell me now what parted you from your shoes and are you
sound and well?... Answer me now.... I think you very dark not speaking
to me. It would be no great load on you to say “God bless you”!
(He keeps moving on; she holding and following him).
Is it your spirit I am looking on, or your ghost!
MRS. COEY.—Look at how he will not let his eye rest upon a woman, the
holy man!
MARGARET ROONEY.—Get him to speak one word to me and you will earn my
blessing!... Do you not recognize me, Owen, and I standing in the pure
daylight!... Don’t now be making strange, but stretch over to the road
to be chatting and talking like you used....
COEY.—He has lost the talk, I am telling you. It is but by signs he
makes things known.
MRS. COEY.—It is that the people of this district are not worthy to hear
his voice.
MARGARET ROONEY.—Is it that you went wild and mad, finding the place so
lonesome? What at all but that, would cause you to go dumb in the heel?
MRS. COEY.—Have some shame on you? Can’t you see he is not acquainted
with you at all.
MARGARET ROONEY.—Did there some disease fall upon you, or some sickness?
Why wouldn’t you come back with me, and I would tend you and find you a
cure.... Let you answer me back, if it is but to spit at me! Is it that
I vexed you in any way, and the stocking I mended with kind worsted
covering your foot yet.... (He draws it back). Is it to break my heart,
you will?... Is it to put ridicule on me and to me making a mockery of
me, you are? Letting on to be dumb? (He weeps). I had great love for him
and I thought he had love for me. (She turns away. He is stretching out
his arms to her when MARY GILLIS comes on. HANRAHAN breaks away, making
a grab at boots, he sits down to put them on, sideways, making a face at
her).
Is that yourself, Mary Gillis. It is in the nick of time you are come.
MRS. COEY.—Give me back now the two shillings I gave you for that pair
of shoes.
MARGARET ROONEY.—Will you draw down on these fools of the world that
this is no saint but Owen Hanrahan.
MRS. COEY.—No, but she is under delusions! A man from God he is!
Miracles he can do, and he living, and at the time he’ll be dead there
is apt to be great virtue in his bones.
MARGARET ROONEY.—Tell them, can’t you, that he is Owen Hanrahan?
MARY GILLIS (puts arms akimbo).—And what is it makes you say this to be
Owen Hanrahan?
(MRS. COEY picks up triumphantly the string of herrings she
drops).
MARGARET ROONEY.—Are you gone cracked along with them?
COEY and MRS. COEY.—That’s the chat! That’s the chat!
MARY GILLIS.—There will a judgment come on you, Margy Rooney, for
putting on a holy Christian, is dwelling in the blessed bed of a saint,
the name of a vagabone heathen poet does be filling the long roads with
his follies and his lies! (He grimaces).
COEY.—That’s right! That’s right! A great shame the name of this holy
friar to be mixed with any sinful at all.
MARGARET ROONEY.—Is it the whole world has gone raging wild?
MARY GILLIS.—Hanrahan the poet is it? God bless your health! That is a
man should not be spoken of in this saintly place. He is the greatest
schemer ever God created! There is no beat to him! Putting lies on his
own father and mother in Cappaghtagle! Letting his father be buried from
the poorhouse that was gaoled for sheepstealing! Sure that one would
hang the Pope!
(HANRAHAN makes faces at her again).
MARGARET ROONEY.—Give over now cutting him down! (tries to put hand over
her mouth.)
MARY GILLIS (freeing herself).—It is not dumb I am myself, the Lord be
praised, the same as this holy man. And I say, if you must put a name on
him, let it be the name of some poet worth while, such as Carolan or
Virgil or Sweeney from Connemara. It is Sweeney that is great! (MARGARET
ROONEY tries to stop her, but she backs and goes on.) It is himself can
string words through the night-time. But as to poor Owen Hanrahan, it is
inhuman songs he makes. Unnatural they are, without mirth or loveliness
or joy or delight.
(HANRAHAN writhes with anguish and makes threatening signs).
You’d laugh your life out, listening to the way he was put down one time
by Sweeney, the Connemara boy!
(HANRAHAN throws himself down and bites at the grass.)
MARGARET ROONEY.—If you are Hanrahan, let you put her down under a
poet’s curse. And if you are a saint, let you make a grasshopper of her
with the power of a saint!
MARY GILLIS.—It is bawneen flannel and clean, that dumb friar is
wearing; but as to Owen Hanrahan, it is a stirabout poet he is, and
greasy his coat is, with all the leavings he brings away from him and he
begging his dinner from door to door.
(HANRAHAN gets up and rushes at her. She shrieks and runs right.
She knocks against FEENEY who is coming on. HANRAHAN stops short
and goes quickly into cabin.)
FEENEY.—Mind yourself, woman! You all to had me knocked, barging and
fighting and raising rings around you! I’ll make you ax my pardon so
sure as my name is Feeney!
MARY GILLIS.—Michael Feeney is it? (He nods.)
MARGARET ROONEY.—What is it brings you here?
FEENEY.—This is a place if you’d go astray, you’d go astray very quick
in it. Crosscutting over the mountain I was, till I’d face back to my
own place near Tuam. And I got word there is a friar from foreign here
in some place, giving out preachings and absolutions.
MRS. COEY.—No, but a holy man that is in the cabin beyond. A great saint
he is, out and out!
FEENEY.—That’ll serve me as well, where I missed attending mass this
fortnight back, where I was ... travelling.... In very backward places,
I was. It is home I am facing now, and I’d sooner give out my confession
to a stranger than to our own priest, might be questioning me where is
my little mountain still. He being a Father Matthew man, that couldn’t
so much as drink water out of a glass but from a cup.
COEY.—You did well coming to himself that can put no question to you at
all.
MRS. COEY.—My grief that he cannot word out a rosary or give us newses
of the fallen angels, being dumb and bereft of speech.
FEENEY.—That will suit me well, so long as his ears are not closed, and
that he can get me free from going ta confession for another quarter of
a year on this side of St. Martin’s Day.
(He kneels at door.)
MARGARET ROONEY (trying to move him away).—Do not be pushing on him
where he might be in a sleep or a slumber.
MRS. COEY (awed).—It is maybe away in a trance he might be, and the
angels coming around him. It is in that way his miracles and wonders
come to him.
COEY (getting behind him).—Mind yourself. He might likely burst demented
out from his trance and destroy the world with one twist of the hand.
MRS. COEY.—He is bended now, holy father. Be so liberal as to reach your
hand for the good of his soul.
MARY GILLIS.—It would maybe be right, the whole of us to go in and see
is there a weakness come upon him with his fast.
(A hand is hurriedly stretched out.)
FEENEY (having knelt a moment shouts).—What is that I see! I recognise
that yellow patch! Owen Hanrahan’s boot! (jumps up and drags) Come out
now, out of that!
MARGARET ROONEY.—Let you leave dragging him! (tries to stop him.)
FEENEY (dragging him out and amused).—Is it yourself, Owen Hanrahan, is
setting up to be no less than a saint? Is it for sport or for gain you
are working miracles and giving out benedictions?
HANRAHAN.—Is it not transported you are!
FEENEY.—Why should I be transported, without you would be wishful of it?
HANRAHAN.—Taken and judged and sent out to Van Dieman’s Land!
FEENEY.—It is seemingly well pleased you would be, I to be there, and my
neck in the hemp along with ilt.
HANRAHAN.—Is that the thanks you are giving me, for doing penance under
dumbness, on the head of you being gaoled in a ship!
FEENEY.—Little you’d care, I to linger my life out on a treadmill or
withering in a cell!
HANRAHAN.—Don’t I tell you I am working out my repentance with the dint
of my grief, where it was through my talk you are made a prisoner, and
brought to the Court, and let away under chains, and blacks maybe
beating you with whips.
FEENEY.—What are you raving about, making me out a rogue and putting
that stain on my name, I that never stood in a court, or a dock, or was
brought away in a ship, or ever rattled a chain, or put my head upon a
block!
HANRAHAN.—Having the name of an informer put on me for your sake!
FEENEY.—Is it that you are after being an informer? Giving out to the
world the hidden bog-hole where I have my still!
HANRAHAN.—I did not!
FEENEY.—And you lurking in a cleft and letting on to be wording your
beads! But I’ll knock satisfaction out of you. I’ll have you baulked!
HANRAHAN.—It is likely the gauger gave it out!
FEENEY.—He wouldn’t put the people against him, saying that a neighbour
made me out and told me he swore he disremembered all that happened.
Death and destruction on me, but he’s a more honourable man than
yourself!
MARGARET ROONEY.—What have you against one another so?
FEENEY.—Blessed if I know.
HANRAHAN.—If I haven’t anything against him, there are others I have it
against. (to MARY GILLIS) Let you be ashamed and under grief, for the
way you have us made fools of, and earning my forgiveness to the end of
your life! It is up here in this cabin yourself has a right to stop for
the centuries, sleeping in your pelt and scraping your bare feet on the
rock, like myself was doing, and speechless, and without defence, the
same as I was myself, through the story you made up and the lies!
MARGARET ROONEY.—That’s the chat, Owen! That is yourself is come back to
us!
MRS. COEY.—Well now, for a saint of silence hasn’t he a terrible deal of
talk!
MARY GILLIS.—As savage as a wasp out of a bottle, he is. His talk is
seven times sharper than before! and a holy terror to the whole world.
I’ll go call to the true friar at the Chapel to say are you not bound to
silence for a year and a day by your oath!
HANRAHAN (putting arm round MARGARET ROONEY and shaking fist at MARY
GILLIS and picking up coat).—You will, will you? Well I’m not bound! How
would I know, when I took the oath in my lone there would be schemers
coming around me challenging and annoying me. It is yourself that broke
the bond, following after me! And you have a great wrong done to me. The
next time I will take an oath of silence it is in the market square I
will take it, the night before the spring fair, and the pigs squealing
from every paling and every car, and hawkers bawling sooner than to be
narrowed up on a crag where I cannot make my escape from the tongue of a
woman that is more lasting than the sole of my shoe! It’s bad behaviour
you showed, with your lies and a great shame for you, and you being a
widow and advanced out a while! It’s a great wonder the Lord to stand
the villainy is in you! I’ll make you go easy! The time you ruz me out
of my senses, tearing away my character, and I being dumb, I had myself
promised I would make a world wonder of you in the bye and bye and my
year and a day being passed! You disgrace, you! The curse of my heart on
you! Go on now, you withered sloe bush, you cranky crab fish, you hag,
you rap, you vagabone! May your day not thrive with you, and that you
may be seven hundred times crosser this time next year, and it is good
curses I’ll be making, and the first I’ll put on you is the curse of
dumbness, for that is the last curse of all!
THE END
THE SOUL’S AWAKENING
J. R. White
I am as drunk as drunk
And in the ebb of that last wave of wine
I did opine that I had sunk.
I am as drunk as drunk
But on the crest of this last wave of drink
I really think I can not sink
So I will rest.
IMAGINARY LETTERS
VI
(Walter Villerant to Mrs. Bland Burn)
Ezra Pound
My Dear Lydia:
Levine is a clever man. Yes, “of course”, of course I agree with you. He
is a clever man. He is constantly being referred to, by the Cincinnati
papers, as the “brains behind the single-tax movement in England”, or
the “brains behind” the neo-vegetarians, or the “brains behind” the
reformed simple-lifers. Were he in France he would undoubtedly
get himself referred to as the brains behind the Claudel
pseudo-romancatholocoes. All things are grist to his mill. He knows the
psychological moment: i.e., when a given idea or “form” will fetch the
maximum price per thousand. I don’t wonder William wants you to get rid
of him.
There is no reason why William should see him, there is no reason why
William should not punch his face in an orgy of sensuous gratification,
there is no reason why William should not kick him down stairs. There is
no reason why any one should see him, or hear him, or endure him. And
there is no reason why I should not see him. Besides he once procured me
£12. I use the word “procure” with intention. It applies—temperamentally
it applies to all of his acts: does he write, does he commission an
article, it is all, in some way, procuration.
On the whole, I do not even dislike him. He has unbounded naïveté. I am
civilized man; I can put up with anything that amuses me.
As for the french pseudo-catholicians, ages of faith, Jeanne d’Arc
canonized, capitalized and the rest of it. They are a pestilent evil.
The procurer is an honest ... and boastful ... tradesman in comparison.
And they are on the whole rotten writers.
“But pray what sort of a gentleman is the devil? For I have heard some
of our officers say, there is no such person; and that it is only a
trick of the parsons, to prevent their being broke. For if it was
publicly known that there was no devil, the parsons would be no more use
than we are in time of peace.”
Said the sergeant. Fielding would not have put up with their dribble.
And he was quite as good as the Russians. The Russians and half Flaubert
thrown in. And he is as modern as the last vorticist writers:
“First having planted her right eye sideways against Mr. Jones....”
Not having been at Rugby or Eton, I can take up anglo-philia as a decent
and defendable bastion, and leave William to enthuse over moujiks. I
believe there is just as much good ... no, dear lady, I forget myself,
or rather I forget I am not writing to William, and that this is not the
siècle de Brantôme. I “believe” there is just as much animal energy
latent ... or patent in the inhabitants of your esteemed chalk hummock.
At any rate I was born in a more nervous and arid climate.
De Gourmont is dead, and with him has ceased Monsieur Croquant, and I
suppose the washy rhetoricans, this back-flush of dead symbolism, dead
celticism etc., will have its way, their ways, south of the channel.
There seems no one to stop it. The “_sociétés_” will be full of it. The
french mystic is most footling of all mystics. France herself will go
under. I mean France as the arbitress of our literary destinies, the
light we look to, from our penumbra. Or perhaps Dr. Duhamel, with his
realism of hospitals, and the brilliant, long silent Romains, the humane
Vildrac will save us? Damn Romain Rolland. Ch. Louis Phillipe is
excessive. Meritorious, doubtless, but excessive.
Amitiés _WALTER_.
THE RAISED ARMS
(Theatre Muet)
Remy de Gourmont.
Translated by Stéphane Boecklin
The scene represents an ocean of heads, whence arises, like buoys half
revealed by the waves, a forest of raised arms. It is a people on its
knees and in prayer.
The heads bob to and fro between the raised arms: lichens and seaweed
clinging to the buoys; the wind, blowing off the East, swells out all
the hair upon them and excites it in a rhythm that seems also a prayer.
The people is on its knees; from invisible eyes, ecstatic with terror
and hope, a milky radiance is exhaled, and ascends to heaven. The souls
climb the milky way, bedewed with splinters of pearl, and the white
road, streaked with nocturnal bars, with flaming tears and bloody scum,
is engulfed and in its supreme altitudes lost within the refulgent glory
of the Pentagon.
The Pentagon oscillates, then rotates about itself like a wheel; the
flames that spurt from its angles gyrate around the wheel; the Pentagon
whirls with an infinite velocity and propels into the very confines of
the world a vortex of flaming air, agitated by disorbed eye-balls,
phosphorescent nut-shells, swept down the obscure and tortuous current
of the universal maelstrom.
At this divine spectacle the kneeling people trembles in love and
recognition; piety prostrates itself in all hearts, and in all bellies
humility crouches upon the stones among the débris of life. Against the
white road, which has resisted the impact of the vortex, the souls hurl
themselves and confuse one another; one perceives them, corpuscles of
incombustible amianthus, stumbling among the splinters of pearl, scaling
the nocturnal bars, vaulting over the flaming tears, swimming athwart
the bloody scum....
* * * * *
The wheel stops and becomes again the pentagon; its angles diminish: it
is a circle; it swells: it is a sphere. This spectacle appears no less
divine than the first. The arms stretch forth more nervously, the heads
are all upturned, resolved to contemplate the Infinite face to face and
in all its glory. The white road is saturated with a heavy dust of
souls: one swarm rises to the assault of heaven and menaces the limpid
gold of the immaculate sphere.
Behold how all the hands and all the heads have swayed beneath the same
force: the first swarms make a stain upon the glorious sphere, and
straightway a line of souls extends from pole to pole. The Sphere is
obliterated: the people has vanquished its God.
* * * * *
Below, one by one the torches are extinguished; one by one the lamps go
out; the arms and the heads become one with the air, and the East Wind,
which passes above the stricken bodies, carries toward the Future the
imponderable perfume of life.
The world is become black; a formless and stolid God hangs above the
shadows like an extinguished lustre; having no more spectators the
Infinite closes the doors of the Theatre;—but it meditates, and it
thinks, “I was Pentagon; I will be Triangle.”
The darkened Sphere is shaken upon its axis; once more it swells; points
of gold appear upon its skin; once more the swarms commence to rain down
upon the world where the radiance strikes. The Sphere bursts asunder and
out of its ruins, impelled to the centre by attraction, the Triangle is
formed.
All the souls are hurled again to earth, and, as they touch the slime,
the atoms group themselves about their essence, for the East Wind,
having made the circuit of the globe, is returned, laden with the
imponderable perfume of life.
* * * * *
Again the torches and the lamps are lit; the heads bob to and fro; the
arms stretch forth; the unconscious prayer ascends in milky radiance
towards the multiform Ideal, and the souls again climb along the white
road of heaven, the road which, henceforth, is to be swallowed up and in
its supreme altitudes lost within the refulgent glory of the Triangle.
TO SUBSCRIBERS
Who did not receive their October issue
Our October issue has been lying in the Postoffice for the last twenty
days!
We did not know this until November 2!
The issue was mailed on October 18. No notice was sent us of any sort,
so we assumed it had reached subscribers as usual. There was no reason
for us to imagine that it had not.
No responses came in about the October number, as they usually do within
a week. We inquired of the Postoffice but could get no information
except that “all deliveries are likely to be slow these days”.
But complaints of non-receipt kept coming in, and I went to the
Postoffice, November 2, to find out what was the matter. I was informed
that the issue was being held on account of the short story by Wyndham
Lewis, called “Cantleman’s Spring Mate”.
This story, by a distinguished man of letters, a man who at present is
in the English army and is fighting in the trenches, is about a young
soldier, who has a rustic encounter with a girl in “the offending fires
of the spring”. Also it happens to be a very good piece of prose, which
was our reason for printing it. We had no hope that such a good piece of
prose could gain the interest of the Postoffice for a minute.
OBSCENITY!
_November 9_
There is nothing lewd or obscene in that story. It is a piece of
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could dream of distorting into indecency.
* * * * *
The decision of the Post Office is in our opinion quite absurdly wrong.
We believe that there have been various complaints of other magazines
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she is the Publisher, Editor, Owner, Business
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1912, embodied in section 443, Postal Laws and
Regulations, printed on the reverse of this
form; to wit:
1. That the names and addresses of the
publisher, editor, managing editor, and
business managers are:
Publisher, Margaret C. Anderson, 24 W.
Sixteenth St., New York; Editor, Margaret C.
Anderson, 24 W. Sixteenth St., New York;
Managing Editor Margaret C. Anderson, 24 W.
Sixteenth St., New York; Business Manager,
Margaret C. Anderson, 24 W. Sixteenth St., New
York.
2. That the owner is, Margaret C. Anderson.
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other security holders owning or holding 1 per
cent. or more of total amount of bonds,
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the names of owners, stockholders, and security
holders, if any, contain not only the list of
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stockholders and security holders who do not
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and this affiant has no reason to believe that
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has any interest direct or indirect in the said
stock, bonds, or other securities than as so
stated by her.
MARGARET C. ANDERSON.
Sworn to and subscribed before me this 29th day
of Sept., 1917.
W. J. HADLEY, Notary Public.
(My commission expires March 30th, 1919.)
THE ARTISTS’ GUILD
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“Hello Huck!”
Recall that golden day when you first read “Huck Finn”? How your
mother said, “For goodness’ sake, stop laughing aloud over that
book. You sound so silly.” But you couldn’t stop laughing.
Today when you read “Huckleberry Finn” you will not laugh so
much. You will chuckle often, but you will also want to weep. The
deep humanity of it—the pathos, that you never saw, as a boy,
will appeal to you now. You were too busy laughing to notice the
limpid purity of the master’s style.
MARK TWAIN
When Mark Twain first wrote “Huckleberry Finn” this land was
swept with a gale of laughter. When he wrote “The Innocents
Abroad” even Europe laughed at it itself.
But one day there appeared a new book from his pen, so spiritual,
so true, so lofty that those who did not know him well were
amazed. “Joan of Arc” was the work of a poet—a historian—a seer.
Mark Twain was all of these. His was not the light laughter of a
moment’s fun, but the whimsical humor that made the tragedy of
life more bearable.
A Real American
Mark Twain was a steamboat pilot. He was a searcher for gold in
the far West. He was a printer. He worked bitterly hard. All this
without a glimmer of the great destiny that lay before him. Then,
with the opening of the great wide West, his genius bloomed.
His fame spread through the nation. It flew to the ends of the
earth, until his work was translated into strange tongues. From
then on, the path of fame lay straight to the high places. At the
height of his fame he lost all his money. He was heavily in debt,
but though 60 years old, he started afresh and paid every cent.
It was the last heroic touch that drew him close to the hearts of
his countrymen.
The world has asked is there an American literature? Mark Twain
is the answer. He is the heart, the spirit of America. From his
poor and struggling boyhood to his glorious, splendid old age, he
remained as simple, as democratic as the plainest of our
forefathers.
He was, of all Americans, the most American. Free in soul, and
dreaming of high things—brave in the face of trouble—and always
ready to laugh. That was Mark Twain.
The Price Goes Up
25 VOLUMES Novels—Stories—Humor—Essays—Travel—History
This is Mark Twain’s own set. This is the set he wanted in the
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Before the war we had a contract price for paper, so we could
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Send the Coupon Without Money
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Your children want Mark Twain. You want him. Send this coupon
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THE LITTLE REVIEW
Respecting no vested interests, no publishers’
interests, no aged magazines and reviews
nor staffs of the same.
In the December number:
A Letter from Remy de Gourmont
A Soldier of Humor, I., by Wyndham Lewis
T. S. Eliot: A Criticism, by May Sinclair
The beginning of a new type of book reviewing
Women and Men, by Ford Madox Hueffer, (probably his most
important book) begins in the January number and will run until
June 1919.
James Joyce will begin a new novel in February or March.
SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT
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beginning with the January number, to $2.50 a year. Single copies
will sell for 25 cents.
Those who subscribe before January 1, 1918, will be entitled to
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FOR CHRISTMAS
The bound volumes of The Little Review now constitute a definite
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Those who have saved their back numbers and wish to send them to
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You could not find a more suitable Christmas gift for your
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Or, if you wish to send The Little Review for the next year to
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SPECIAL OFFER
James Joyce’s A Portrait of the Artist as
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We are glad to announce that through the courtesy of Mr. Huebsch
we are able to make the following unusual offer, open to any one
who sends in a subscription (or a renewal) to The Little Review.
Mr. Joyce’s Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, the most
important and beautiful piece of novel writing to be found in
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Little Review is $1.50. We will cut the latter to $1.00, for this
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ORDER FORM
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THE LITTLE REVIEW
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Transcriber’s Notes
Advertisements were collected at the end of the text.
The table of contents on the title page was adjusted in order to reflect
correctly the headings in this issue of THE LITTLE REVIEW.
The original spelling was mostly preserved. A few obvious typographical
errors were silently corrected. All other changes are shown here
(before/after):
[p. 14]:
... MRS. COEY.—Wording a prayer he would seen to be, letting ...
... MRS. COEY.—Wording a prayer he would seem to be, letting ...
[p. 16]:
... couldn’t be saintlier than what he is. He living in the
wildeerness ...
... couldn’t be saintlier than what he is. He living in the
wilderness ...
[p. 33]:
... you will earn by blessing!... Do you not recognize me, ...
... you will earn my blessing!... Do you not recognize me, ...
[p. 35]:
... FEENEY.—Mind yourself, woman! You all to had be knocked, ...
... FEENEY.—Mind yourself, woman! You all to had me knocked, ...
[p. 38]:
... crab fish, ou hag, you rap, you vagabone! May your day ...
... crab fish, you hag, you rap, you vagabone! May your day ...
[p. 42]:
... the slime, the atoms group themselves about thei essence, for
the ...
... the slime, the atoms group themselves about their essence,
for the ...
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