The Little Review

Literature Drama Music Art

MARGARET C. ANDERSON
EDITOR

DECEMBER, 1915

Published Monthly

15 cents a copy

MARGARET C. ANDERSON, Publisher
Fine Arts Building
CHICAGO

$1.50 a year

Entered as second-class matter at Postoffice, Chicago

The Little Review

Vol. II

DECEMBER, 1915

No. 9

Copyright, 1915, by Margaret C. Anderson

Hellenica

Edward J. O’Brien

I.

The scent of mint on the sandy grave of Nicias

Crieth unto the wanderer

For remembrance.

II.

Here in the arms of the harvest

Lieth the gleaner, Bion,

Whose sickle shineth above him in the evening.

III.

Far from tides and sand

On the slope of Cithaeron

Resteth Eumenes

In the purple distance.

His fellow tunny-fishers erect this stone.

IV.

Chaste Clearista flowereth in the heavens,

For dearer than Helen’s beauty in April sunlight

The gods love the spotless dreams of a maiden.

V.

Fairer than iris blossoms slenderly swaying

Under the sighing zephyrs of sandy Argos,

The harvest breezes stole the heart of Erinna.

Now she dreameth under the meadow grasses.

VI.

The swan afloat on the rippling azure waters

Remembereth thy fairness, Rhododaphne,

And dreameth on time’s surface of thy passing.

VII.

Nerissa played with the swallows till the twilight.

Now they soar above her,

And they wonder.

VIII.

Barefoot, a little lad hath wandered far,

And we have sought in vain,

For he hath found

The amaranthine meadows.

IX.

Far from Cos where the sailors hail in passing,

Cleonicus lieth unmarked on the ocean strand.

The crying gulls bring tidings of ancient summer,

But not to me the sound of his glad coming.

X.

Now that the flower is blown

And the rosy petals

Render earth more fragrant

With their body,

Myrrhis dreameth of spring in the flaming ground.

XI.

Lightly I walked the hills of my native Hellas.

Lightly I rest in the heart of her rushing forest,

Hermas, the hunter,

At peace,

With the moon above me.

XII.

Thyrsis, who loved the rain in the dreaming hollows,

Wandereth now soft-sandalled in misty ways,

Where the scent of flag

Recalleth not

Hylas, lonely.

Sister

Sherwood Anderson

The young artist is a woman, and at evening she comes to talk to me in my room. She is my sister, but long ago she has forgotten that and I have forgotten.

Neither my sister nor I live in our father’s house, and among all my brothers and sisters I am conscious only of her. The others have positions in the city and in the evening go home to the house where my sister and I once lived. My father is old and his hands tremble. He is not concerned about me, but my sister who lives alone in a room in a house on North Dearborn Street has caused him much unhappiness.

Into my room in the evening comes my sister and sits upon a low couch by the door. She sits cross-legged and smokes cigarettes. When she comes it is always the same—she is embarrassed and I am embarrassed.

Since she has been a small girl my sister has always been very strange. When she was quite young she was awkward and boyish and tore her clothes climbing trees. It was after that her strangeness began to be noticed. Day after day she would slip away from the house and go to walk in the streets. She became a devout student and made such rapid strides in her classes that my mother—who to tell the truth is fat and uninteresting—spent the days worrying. My sister, she declared, would end by having brain fever.

When my sister was fifteen years old she announced to the family that she was about to take a lover. I was away from home at the time, on one of the wandering trips that have always been a passion with me.

My sister came into the house, where the family were seated at the table, and, standing by the door, said she had decided to spend the night with a boy of sixteen who was the son of a neighbor.

The neighbor boy knew nothing of my sister’s intentions. He was at home from college, a tall, quiet, blue-eyed fellow, with his mind set upon foot-ball. To my family my sister explained that she would go to the boy and tell him of her desires. Her eyes flashed and she stamped with her foot upon the floor.

My father whipped my sister. Taking her by the arm he led her into the stable at the back of the house. He whipped her with a long black whip that always stood upright in the whip-socket of the carriage in which, on Sundays, my mother and father drove about the streets of our suburb. After the whipping my father was ill.

I am wondering how I know so intimately all the details of the whipping of my sister. Neither my father nor my sister have told me of it. Perhaps sometime, as I sat dreaming in a chair, my mother gossiped of the whipping. It would be like her to do that, and it is a trick of my mind never to remember her figure in connection with the things she has told me.

After the whipping in the stable my sister was quite changed. The family sat tense and quiet at the table and when she came into the house she laughed and went upstairs to her own room. She was very quiet and well-behaved for several years and when she was twenty-one inherited some money and went to live alone in the house on North Dearborn Street. I have a feeling that the walls of our house told me the story of the whipping. I could never live in the house afterwards and came away at once to this room where I am now and where my sister comes to visit me.

And so there is my sister in my room and we are embarrassed. I do not look at her but turn my back and begin writing furiously. Presently she is on the arm of my chair with her arm about my neck.

I am the world and my sister is the young artist in the world. I am afraid the world will destroy her. So furious is my love of her that the touch of her hand makes me tremble.

My sister would not write as I am now writing. How strange it would seem to see her engaged in anything of the kind. She would never give the slightest bit of advice to any one. If you were dying and her advice would save you she would say nothing.

My sister is the most wonderful artist in the world, but when she is with me I do not remember that. When she has talked of her adventures, up from the chair I spring and go ranting about the room. I am half blind with anger, thinking perhaps that strange, furtive looking youth, with whom I saw her walking yesterday in the streets, has had her in his arms. The flesh of my sister is sacred to me. If anything were to happen to her body I think I should kill myself in sheer madness.

In the evening after my sister is gone I do not try to work any more. I pull my couch to the opening by the window and lie down. It is then a little that I begin to understand my sister. She is the artist right to adventure in the world, to be destroyed in the adventure, if that be necessary, and I, on my couch, am the worker in the world, blinking up at the stars that can be seen from my window when my couch is properly arranged.

Toward Revolution

Margaret C. Anderson

On Thanksgiving Day some five thousand men and women marched in Joe Hillstrom’s funeral. Why didn’t they march for Joe Hillstrom before he was shot, everybody is asking.

Yes, naturally. Why not?

Incidentally, why didn’t some one shoot the governor of Utah before he could shoot Joe Hill? It might have awakened Capital—and Labor. Or why didn’t five hundred of the five thousand get Joe Hill out of jail? It could have been done. Or why didn’t fifty of the five thousand make a protest that would set the nation gasping?

There are Schmidt and Caplan. Why doesn’t some one see to it that they are released? Labor could do it. And there are the Chicago garment strikers. Why doesn’t some one arrange for the beating-up of the police squad? That would make a good beginning. Or set fire to some of the factories, or start a convincing sabotage in the shops?

Why aren’t these things done?

For the same reason that men continue to support institutions they no longer believe in; that women continue to live with men they no longer love; that youth continues to submit to age it no longer respects; for the same reason that you are a slave when you want to be free, or a nonentity when you would like to have a personality.

It is a matter of Spirit. Spirit can do anything. It is the only thing in the world that can.

For God’s sake, why doesn’t some one start the Revolution?

Images of Life and Death

Maxwell Bodenheim

Life

I.

The sky is the thin, strong expanse of a God,

And the trees are lines of black Hindus

Praying in black shrivelled attitudes.

II.

The grass is a priest in dream-gold cloth,

Lying on his back, hard with years of thought-spinning.

The lateral-gray, snarled clouds over him

Are the thoughts he has solemnly woven.

III.

The slender lagoon holds the laughter of a child

With his lips to a huge, full cup.

Death

I.

A fan of smoke, in the long, green-white reverie of the horizon,

Slowly curls apart.

So shall I rise and widen out in the silence of air.

II.

An old man runs down a little yellow road

To an out-flung, white thicket uncovered by morning.

So shall I swing to the white sharpness of death.

Preparedness.
The Road to Universal Slaughter

Emma Goldman

Ever since the beginning of the European conflagration the people of Europe have thrown themselves into the flames of war like panic-stricken cattle. And now America, pushed to the very brink by unscrupulous politicians, by ranting demagogues, and by military sharks, is preparing for the same terrible feat.

In the face of this approaching disaster it behooves men and women not yet overcome by the war madness to raise their protest, to call the attention of the people to the crime and outrage which are about to be perpetrated upon them.

America is essentially the melting pot. No national unit composing it is in a position to boast of superior race purity, particular historic mission, or higher culture. Yet the jingoes and war speculators are filling the air with the sentimental slogan of hypocritical nationalism, “America for Americans,” “America first, last, and all the time.” This cry has caught the popular fancy from one end of the country to the other. In order to maintain America military preparedness must be engaged in at once. A billion dollars of the people’s sweat and blood is to be expended for dreadnaughts and submarines for the army and the navy, all to protect this precious America.

The pathos of it all is that the America which is to be protected by a huge military force is not the America of the people, but the America of the privileged class; the class which robs and exploits the masses, and controls their lives. And it is no less pathetic that so few people realize that preparedness never leads to peace, but is indeed the road to universal slaughter.

The American military ring with its Roosevelts, its Garrisons, its Daniels, and lastly its Wilsons, is moving the very heavens to place the militaristic heel upon the necks of the American people—using the same methods of the German diplomats to saddle the masses with Prussian militarism. If it is successful America will be hurled into the storm of blood and tears now devastating the countries of Europe.

Forty years ago Germany proclaimed the slogan: “Germany above everything. Germany for the Germans, first, last and always. We want peace; therefore we must prepare for war. Only a well-armed and thoroughly-prepared nation can maintain peace, can command respect, can be sure of its national integrity.” And Germany continued to prepare, thereby forcing the other nations to do the same. The European war is the fruition of the gospel of military preparedness.

Since the war began, miles of paper and oceans of ink have been used to prove the barbarity, the cruelty, the oppression of Prussian militarism. Conservatives and radicals alike are giving their support to the Allies for no other reason than to help crush that militarism, in the presence of which, they say, there can be no peace or progress in Europe. But though America grows fat on the manufacture of munition and war loans to the Allies to help crush Prussianism, the same cry is now being raised in America which, if carried into national action, will build up an American militarism far more terrible than German or Prussian militarism could ever be; because nowhere in the world has capitalism become so brazen in its greed as in America, and nowhere is the state so ready to kneel at the feet of capital.

Like a plague the mad spirit of militarism is sweeping the country, infesting the clearest heads and staunchest hearts. National security leagues, with cannon as their emblem of protection, naval leagues with women in their lead, have sprung up all through the United States. Americanization societies with well-known liberals as members, they who but yesterday decried the patriotic clap-trap of today, are now lending themselves to the befogging of the minds of the people, to the building-up of the same destructive institutions in America which they are directly and indirectly helping to pull down in Germany—militarism, the destroyer of youth, the raper of woman, the annihilator of the best in the race, the very mower of life.

Even Woodrow Wilson, who not so long ago talked of “a nation too proud to fight,” who in the beginning of the war ordered prayers for peace, who in his proclamations spoke of the necessity of watchful waiting—even he has been whipped into line. He has now joined his worthy colleagues in the jingo movement, echoing their clamor for preparedness and their howl of “America for Americans.” The difference between Wilson and Roosevelt is this: Roosevelt, the bully, uses the club; Wilson, the historian, the college professor, wears the smooth polished university mask, but underneath it he, like Roosevelt, has but one aim: to serve the big interests, to add to those who are growing phenomenally rich by the manufacture of military preparedness.

Woodrow Wilson, in his address before the Daughters of the American Revolution, gave his case away when he said: “I would rather be beaten than ostracized.” To stand out against the Bethlehem, Du Pont, Baldwin, Remington, Winchester metallic cartridges and the rest of the armament ring means political ostracism and death. Wilson knows that; therefore he betrays his original position, goes back on the bombast of “too proud to fight,” and howls as loudly as any other cheap politician for preparedness and national glory, for the silly pledge the Navy League women intend to impose upon every school child: “I pledge myself to do all in my power to further the interests of my country, to uphold its institutions and to maintain the honor of its name and its flag. As I owe everything in life to my country, I consecrate my heart, mind, and body to its service and promise to work for its advancement and security in times of peace and to shrink from no sacrifice or privation in its cause should I be called upon to act in its defense for the freedom, peace, and happiness of our people.”

To uphold the institutions of our country—that is it; the institutions which protect and sustain a handful of people in the robbery and plunder of the masses, the institutions which drain the blood of the native as well as of the foreigner and turn it into wealth and power; the institutions which rob the alien of whatever originality he brings with him and in return give him cheap Americanism, whose glory consists in mediocrity and arrogance.

The very proclaimers of “America first” have long before this betrayed the fundamental principles of real Americanism, of the kind of Americanism Jefferson had in mind when he said that the best government is that which governs least; the kind of an America David Thoreau worked for when he proclaimed that the best government is the one that doesn’t govern at all; or the other truly great Americans who aimed to make of this country a haven of refuge, who hoped that all the disinherited and oppressed coming to these shores would give character, quality and meaning to the country. That is not the America of the politicians and the munition speculators. Their America has been powerfully portrayed by a young New York sculptor I know; he has made a hard cruel hand with long lean merciless fingers, crushing in over the heart of the foreigner, squeezing out its blood in order to coin dollars.

No doubt Woodrow Wilson has reason to defend these institutions. But what an ideal to hold out to the young generation! And how is a military-drilled and trained people to defend freedom, peace, and happiness? This is what Major General O’Ryan has to say of an efficiently trained generation: “The soldier must be so trained that he becomes a mere automation; he must be so trained that it will destroy his initiative; he must be so trained that he is turned into a machine. The soldier must be forced into the military noose; he must be jacked up; he must be ruled by his superiors with pistol in hand.”

This was not said by a Prussian Junker; not by a German barbarian; not by Treitska or Bernhardi, but by an American major general. And he is right. You cannot conduct war with equals; you cannot have militarism with free born man; you must have slaves, automatons, machines, obedient disciplined creatures, who will move, act, shoot, and kill at the command of their superiors. That is preparedness, and nothing else.

It has been reported that among the speakers before the Navy League was Samuel Gompers. I have long ceased to believe what is reported in the press. But if that is true, it signalizes the greatest outrage upon labor at the hands of its own leaders. Preparedness is directed not only against the external enemy; it aims much more at the internal enemy. It is directed against that element of labor which has learned not to hope for anything from our institutions, that awakened part of the working people who have realized that the war of the classes underlies all wars among nations, and that if war is justified at all it is the war against economic dependence and political slavery, the two dominant issues involved in the struggle of the classes.

Already militarism has been acting its bloody part in every economic conflict, with the approval and support of the state. Where was the protest from Washington when “our men, women and children” were killed in Ludlow? Where was that high-sounding outraged protest contained in the note to Germany? Or is there any difference in killing “our men, women and children” in Ludlow or on the high seas? Yes, indeed. The men, women, and children at Ludlow were working people, belonging to the disinherited of the earth, foreigners who had to be given a taste of the glories of Americanism, while the passengers of the Lusitania represented wealth and station; therein lies the difference.

Preparedness, therefore, will only add to the power of the privileged few and help them to subdue, to enslave, and crush labor. Surely Gompers must know that, and if he joins the howl of the military clique he must stand condemned as a traitor to the cause of labor.

It will be with preparedness as it has been with all the other institutions in our confused life which were created for the good of the people and which have accomplished the very reverse. Supposedly, America is to prepare for peace; but in reality it will prepare for the cause of war. It has always been so and it will continue to be so until nation refuses to fight against nation, and until the people of the world stop preparing for slaughter. Preparedness is like the seed of a poisonous plant; placed in the soil, it will bear poisonous fruit. The European mass destruction is the fruit of that poisonous seed. It is imperative that the American workers realize this before they are driven by the jingoes into the madness that is forever haunted by the spectre of danger and invasion; they must know that to prepare for peace means to invite war, means to unloose the furies of death over land and sea.

You cannot build up a standing army and then throw it back into a box like tin soldiers. Armies equipped to the teeth with highly-developed instruments of murder and backed by their military interests have their own dynamic functions. We have but to examine into the nature of militarism to realize the truth of this contention.

Militarism consumes the strongest and most productive elements of each nation. Militarism swallows the largest part of the national revenue. Even in times of peace almost nothing is spent on education, art, literature, and science in comparison with the amount devoted to militarism; while in times of war everything else is set at naught: all life stagnates, all effort is curtailed, the very sweat and blood of the masses are used to feed this insatiable monster—militarism. Under such circumstances it must become more arrogant, more aggressive, more bloated with its own importance. If for no other reason, it is out of surplus energy that militarism must act to remain alive; therefore it will find an enemy or create one artificially. In this civilized purpose militarism is sustained by the state, protected by the laws of the land, fostered by the home and the school, and glorified by public opinion. In other words, the function of militarism is to kill. It cannot live except through murder.

But the most dominant factor of military preparedness, and the one which inevitably leads to war, is the creation of group interests which consciously and deliberately work for the increase of armament whose purposes are furthered by creating the war hysteria. This group interest embraces all those engaged in the manufacture and sale of munition and in military equipment for personal gain and profit. For instance, the family Krupp, which owns the largest cannon munition plant in the world; its sinister influence in Germany, and in fact in many other countries, extends to the press, the school, the church, and to statesmen of highest rank. Shortly before the war, Karl Liebknecht, the one brave public man in Germany now, brought to the attention of the Reichstag the fact that the family Krupp had in its employ officials of the highest military position, not only in Germany, but in France and in other countries. Everywhere its emissaries have been at work, systematically inciting national hatreds and antagonisms. The same investigation brought to light an international war supply trust which gives a hang for patriotism, or for love of the people, but which uses both to incite war and to pocket millions of profits out of the terrible bargain.

It is not at all unlikely that the history of the present war will trace its origin to this international murder trust. But is it always necessary for one generation to wade through oceans of blood and heap up mountains of human sacrifice that the next generation may learn a grain of truth from it all? Can we of today not profit by the cause which led to the European war, can we not learn that it was preparedness, thorough and efficient preparedness on the part of Germany and the other countries for military aggrandizement and material gain; above all can we not realize that preparedness in America must and will lead to the same result, the same barbarity, the same senseless sacrifice of life? Is America to follow suit, is it to be turned over to the American Krupps, the American military cliques? It almost seems so when one hears the jingo howls of the press, the blood and thunder tirades of bully Roosevelt, the sentimental twaddle of our college-bred President.

The more reason for those who still have a spark of libertarianism and humanity left to cry out against this great crime, against the outrage now being prepared and imposed upon the American people. It is not enough to claim being neutral; a neutrality which sheds crocodile tears with one eye and keeps the other riveted upon the profits from war supplies and war loans, is not neutrality. It is merely hypocritical. Nor is it enough to join the bourgeois pacifists, who proclaim peace among the nations, while helping to perpetuate the war among the classes, a war which in reality is at the bottom of all other wars.

It is this war of the classes that we must concentrate upon, and in that connection the war against false values, against evil institutions, against all social atrocities. Those who appreciate the urgent need of cooperating in great struggles must oppose military preparedness imposed by the state and capitalism for the destruction of the masses. They must organize the preparedness of the masses for the overthrow of both capitalism and the state. Industrial and economic preparedness is what the workers need. That alone leads to revolution at the bottom as against mass destruction from on top. That alone leads to true internationalism of labor against Kaiserdom, kingdom, diplomacies, military cliques, and bureaucracies. That alone will give the people the means to take their children out of the slums, out of the sweat-shops and the cotton-mills; that alone will enable them to inculcate in the coming generation a new ideal of brotherhood, to rear them in play and song and beauty; to bring up men and women, not automatons; that alone will enable woman to become the real mother of the race, to give to the world creative men, and not soldiers who destroy. That alone leads to economic and social freedom, and does away with war.

Ellie

Mary Aldis

She came to do my nails.

Came in my door and stood before me waiting,

A great big lummox of a girl—

A continent.

Her dress was rusty black

And scant,

Her hat, a melancholy jumble of basement counter bargains.

Her sullen eyes,

Like a whipped animal’s,

Shone out between her silly bulging cheeks and puffy forehead.

She dropped her coat upon a chair

And waited;

Then, at a word, busied herself

With files and delicate scissors,

Sweet-smelling oils and my ten finger tips.

She proved so deft and silent

I bade her come again;

And twice a week

While summer dawned and flushed and waned

She used me in her parasitic trade.

The dress grew rustier,

The hat more melancholy,

And Ellie fatter.

Each time she came I wondered as she worked

If thought lay anywhere

Behind that queer uncouthness.

She had a trick of seizing with her eyes

Each passing thing,

An insatiate greediness for something out of reach;

And yet she seemed enwrapped

In a kind of solemn patience,

Large, aloof and waiting.

We hardly ever spoke—

I could not think of anything worth saying;

One does not chatter with a continent.

Finally it was homing time;

The seashore town was raw and desolate

And idlers flitted.

The last day Ellie came

Her calm was gone, she had been crying.

Fat people never ought to cry;

It’s awful....

The hot drops fell upon my hand

While Ellie dropped the scissors suddenly

And sniffed and blew and sobbed

In disconcerting and unreserved abandonment.

I said the usual things;

I would have patted her but for the grease,

But Ellie was not comforted.

Not until the storm was spent

And only little catching breaths were left

I got the reason.

“I’m so fat,” she gulped, “so awful, awful fat

The boys won’t look at me.”

And then it came, the stammered passionate cry:

Could I not help?

Could I not find a medicine?

We talked and talked

And when at dusk she went, a teary smile

Hovered a moment on her mouth

And in those sullen, swollen eyes

A little hope perhaps;

I did not know.

The city and its interests soon engulfed me.

A letter or two,

A doctor’s vague advice to bant and exercise,

And Ellie and her woes passed from my mind

Until, as summer dawned again,

I heard that she was dead.

A curious letter written stiffly,

From Ellie’s mother,

Told me I was invited to the funeral

“By wish of the Deceased.”

Wondering I travelled to the little town

Where the sea beat and groaned

And sorrowed endlessly,

And made my way down the steep street

To Ellie’s door.

Her mother met me in the hall

And motioned,—

“She wanted you to see her,”

Then ushered me into an awful place, the parlor—

A place of emerald plush and golden oak

Set round with pride and symmetry,

And in the midst

A black and silver coffin—

Ellie’s coffin.

Raising the lid she pointed and I looked.

Somewhere in Florence Mino da Fiesole

Has made a tomb

Where deathless beauty lies with upturned face.

Two gentle hands, palms meeting,

Touch with their pointed forefingers

A delicate chin, and over the vibrant body

Clings a white robe

Enshrouding chastely

Warm curving lines of adolescent grace.

No sleeper this,—

The figure glows, alert, awake, aware,

As if some sudden ecstacy had stolen life

And held imprisoned there

The moment of attainment

Rapt, imperishable and fair.

Even so lay Ellie,

And when from somewhere far I heard

The mother’s voice

I listened vacantly.

The woman chattered on,

“The dress you know, white chiffon, like a wedding dress—

I never knew she had it,

She must ’a made it by herself.

It’s queer it fitted perfectly

An’ her all thin like that—

She must ’a thought—”

Then black-robed relatives came streaming in

To look at Ellie.

I watched them start

And look around for explanation.

The mother pinched my arm:

“Don’t ask me anything now,” she whispered;

“Come back tonight.”

Then old, old words were sung and prayed and droned,

While everybody dutifully cried,

And when the village parson

Rhythmically proclaimed—

And this mortal shall put on immortality,—

With a great welcoming

And a great lightening

I knew at last the ancient affirmation.

When evening came I found the mother

Sitting amidst her golden oak and plush

In a kind of isolated stateliness.

She led me in.

“’Twas the stuff she took that did it,”

She began; “I never knew till after she was dead.

The bottles in the woodshed, hundreds of ’em

All labelled “Caldwell’s Great Obesity Cure

Warranted Safe and Rapid.”

Oh ain’t it awful?” and she fell to crying miserably;

“But wasn’t she real pretty in her coffin?”

And then she cried again