« ΠροηγούμενηΣυνέχεια »
For some time the Russian Soviet Government has had as its Minister to Poland whilom aristocratic Prince Obolensky. Although he has several times resigned, his resignations have never been accepted. Last week, however, his Government accommodated him by ordering his recall, allegedly for failing to conceal the propaganda and espionage work of the Warsaw Soviet Legation.
Consequent upon the recall of Minister Obolensky, the Soviet Government enquired of the Polish Government if Peter Voikov, who had accompanied Lenin and Trotzky from Switzerland to Russia in 1917, would be persona grata. As Peter had planned and carried out the infamous execution of the late Imperial Family, the Polish Government hesitated to accept him. The Polish press saw in the incident an affront to the Nation.
Much was made of the fact that the Sinai Desert had been crossed by a "small American automobile" in four hours.
The sages reflected that the same journey had taken the Israelites 40
National Drill Day?
In emulation of Defense Day in the U. S., Japanese military reservists proposed a National Drill Day to be held throughout the Empire on Oct. 23, the festival day at the National military shrine of Yasukuni in Tokyo.
The Japanese Government reserved official sanction but stated that it saw in the proposed drill day no connection with the U. S. Defense Day.
One Yei Ling, a member of the Chinese Senate, wrote a letter to a friend (unnamed) in Washington, U. S. A. In that letter Mr. Ling issued a war challenge. Said he, in
"Now Russia, Germany and Aus
tria, as a result of internal changes in their respective countries, have given up their special privileges in China and have concluded treaties of equality and reciprocity with us. For this the Chinese people feel very grateful. But England, France, Japan, America and Italy still cling to their privileged position in this country, showing no indication as yet of surrendering it. This is a matter of great indignation for the people.
"Since the Versailles and Washington Conferences, the people in England, America, Japan and France have never ceased to talk of the reorganization of international relations on the basis of right and humanity. Does their treatment of China act up to the pronouncement?
"All those unequal and unfair treaties which your Government has forced on China should be abrogatel at once and in their place treaties of equality and reciprocity should be concluded. The Legation Quarter in Peking, together with all foreign settlements and concessions in the different treaty ports, should be returned to China; all extra-territorial courts abolished; all indemnities which China is still forced to pay waived; the customs and the postal administrations handed over to Chinese management; foreign troops and gunboats withdrawn at once; Hongkong, Kowloon, Liao-tung and Formosa returned to China; Burma, Annam and Korea allowed to become independent.
"All the above demands are but just and fair. If you should regard them as excessive and unreasonable, China with her 400,000,000 people will unite with the weak and small races of Asia and the suppressed peoples of Europe and Africa and meet you in the field of battle to fight out the issue."
The rickshaw has departed from the streets of Shantung. In its place came the pedicab-a rickshaw with a bicycle attachment. In order that this "improved" form of rickshaw transit shall in every way be superior to the old, the pedicab company has provided that the driver must bathe regularly, must not eat garlic, must wear a uniform.
Mexico. From Vera Cruz το Jalapa, more than 100 miles, were "hordes" of grasshoppers, gaily munching crops, stopping trains and stridulating with much gusto. lt was said that the Isthmus of Tehuantepec was virtually covered with the insects. Although the Department of Agriculture was busy fighting the plague by issuing instructions to farmers, who waged an energetic war upon the hoppers, the latter were reported to be getting the better of the encounters.
General Higenio Aguilar, 90-yearold revolutionary veteran, surrendered to the Federal authorities. This venerable Mexican gentleman boasts that he has taken part in all the major revolts during the past 65 years, including the de la Huerta revolt (TIME Dec. 10 et seq.). It was not thought that he would be executed.
Bandits captured and held for ransom one R. T. Berrinean, an American, General Manager of a lumber and turpentine company. U. S. Counselor of Embassy H. F. Schoenfeld reported the matter to the Mexican Foreign Office.
Honduras. Following the decision of U. S. Minister Franklin E. Morales to return to Washington (either on vacation or to report to Secretary of State Charles E. Hughes, or both), came the news that George Catewood Hamilton, American, and Charles Edward Rimmer British, had been killed. The U. S. Department of State kept its peace while waiting for further details. Nothing was heard from London. It was presumed that the foreigners had been killed during the revolution, which was still in
Brazil. Brazil's revolt continued. The Federal Troops scored several victories and were said to be gradually cornering their enemies. On the River Paraná a whole boatload of rebels was sunk by gunfire; many lives were lost. According to one report, the campaign against the rebels was being conducted with prudence, owing to the Government's desire to spare the lives of Federal soldiers "who are more valuable to the country than the rebels and the mercenaries in their service."
EDWARD OF WALES (1865)
He hoped she would be alone
public curiosity. Other authors have less excellent motives, and sometimes don the domino of anonymity solely for protection.
Certain critics, who shall also be nameless for protection's sake, have heralded Uncensored Recollections as one of the greatest contributions to Continental biography of the decade, if not of the Century. In point of fact, it is nothing but a book of gossip, biographically useless. It will make the reader wish that the author's memory had been a little more accurate and that someone had censored the product. It does, however, bring up a nice point of honor: is it compatible with the conduct of gentlemen to publish to the world the indiscretions of and essentially private details about his friends and acquaintances, most of whom are dead, or to reproduce mere club talk about them? The reader must answer. Yet the book is interesting in its numerous more harmless parts.
Of Queen Victoria. "Old Lady Ely used to say that Lord Fife was one of the few men who could with impunity quiz, as it were, the Queen-to use a vulgarism, get the best of her. On
one occasion, at dinner at Windsor, when Lord Fife was mopping up his soup with much noise, he suddenly paused, looked up and said in his very broad Scotch: 'Yer Majesty will be pleased to hear that I hae given up brandy and sodas!' 'I'm glad to hear it, Lord Fife,' said the Queen. I'm sure you'll be better for it.' 'Thank you, ma'am, I think I shall; and besides I find Scotch whiskey and seltzer an excellent substitute.''
Of King Edward (as Prince of Wales). "Speaking of beautiful Lady Mary Craven. . . . The Prince of Wales wrote her a charming and affectionate letter, calling her 'Mary' tout court, saying he was coming to tea with her on such and such an afternoon, and hoped she would be alone so that they could have a nice little tête-à-tête chat. This missive somehow got into the hands of her father. . . . When the day and hour for the tea arrived and the Prince came hoping to find 'dear Mary' alone, he found the old Earl in the full dress uniform of an admiral, cocked hat in hand, ready to receive him at the top of the red-carpeted steps leading from the street. . . . The Prince in after years often told this story himself. . . ."
Of Plon Plon (Prince Napoleon, second son of ex-King of Westphalia Jerome Bonaparte), so-called because that is supposed to represent the noise of a rifle, and the Prince was said to have funked crossing the Alma during the Crimean War in going to the relief of the gallant Bosquet. . . . once found his match in Esther Guimon.
One night the Prince was supping at Guimon's house in the Rue Chateaubriand with Gramont and Caderousse, Vallombrosa, Prince d'Hairn, and others; and when everyone started to leave 'Plon Plon' calmly announced his intention of staying the night there; and the fair Esther, who was then supposed to be under the protection of Duke Ratibon, made no objection. In the morning, "the Prince was in one of his worst fits of bad temper and very insulting."
Plon Plon: "I can't imagine what the Devil can possibly have induced me to stay."" Esther: "I am sorry you should say so, Monseigneur.'"
Plon Plon: "Are you, indeed? Not so sorry as I am. Why, I can't imagine what that ass Ratibon can possibly see in you to admire!'"
Esther: "Oh, mon Prince, I can't tell you how sorry I am to have you say that, for so far as my experience goes you are the most desirable man
in Paris; you have everything except . . .''
Plon Plon: "Except what?" " Esther: "Oh, I can't tell your Highness--I dare not.'"
Plon Plon: ""But I insist. I must know.'"
Esther: ""Your Highness would never forgive me-I dare not tell you.'" Plon Plon: "But you shall, you must, I insist!'"
Esther: "Oh, I dare not . . . besides I cannot prove what I say you can never perceive it yourself your courtiers will lie to you about it; and, when you ask them, swear it isn't true.'"
Plon Plon: "Look here, my dear little Esther, please forgive me for all the rude things I said to you just now; and please, I beg of you, tell me very frankly and plainly. . .I faithfully promise not to be angry
Esther: "Well, Monseigneur, as you command me . . . I will speak out very
The dissatisfied Chicago theatre musicians who are clamoring for bigger money (TIME, Aug. 25), threatening to walk out on Labor Day, are rapidly infecting their brethren all over the country with the spirit of revolt. The insurrection has spread from Chicago to St. Louis, Cincinnati, Washington, Philadelphia, New York, Syracuse, Boston, within a week's time. Requests for a 10%, increase in material appreciation have: swelled to demands for as much as 50% additional salary. The original band of 700 strikers has grown to a body of 4,000 or 5,000 unwilling performers. Theatre owners stand by their original compromise-offer of a 5% increase in salaries, which would bring them up to from $60 to $90 per week. If the deadlock continues, Sept. 1st will find our eastern playhouses deprived of the dulcet rustle of violins as the lovers dally in the garden, and of the eerie wail of the clarinet as the butler hides the revolver in the sideboard.
Radio listeners, being human, want the best of everything. But they don't always get it. The nightly ether-music is too often indirect advertising. Prudent musicians object to the broadcasting of their programs; people won't buy seats in stuffy concert halls if they can stay at home and listen to the same thing. For these and allied reasons, the Chicago Civic Opera will not broadcast its performances this Winter.
A solution to this distressing situation has been offered by the National Association of Broadcasters of New York. It is a plan that has already worked out successfully in England. Every piece of radio apparatus that is sold to the public is to be decorated with a stamp. These stamps are to represent one-half of 1% of the retail price of the apparatus. The purchaser pays the stamp tax as his contribution to the support of the "talent" he will hear.
It is expected that radio sales will approximate $400,000,000 during the current year. This would yield a stamp-income of at least $1,500,000 per annum-enough to hire, in the words of the announcement, "the best-known performers of the stage and concert platform." The plan is recommended by a special committee appointed by E. F. McDonald, President of the Broadcasters' Asso
ciation. It was considered the best of over 100 submitted by various radio organizations. It will undoubtedly be adopted at the Broadcasters' Annual Convention in September and will then come before Secretary Hoover, "Dictator of U. S. Radio," when the National Radio Conference holds its grand pow-wow.
At Berkeley, Calif., the University summer music session was officially closed by a concert of Henry Cowell's funny ultra-modern oddities, presented in Wheeler Hall by the Berkeley Greek Theatre Management. The titles read:' Amiable Conversation, What's This, Advertisements, Piece for Piano With Strings. The performance was punctuated by snickers and guffaws on the part of the learned audience. This was. just what Cowell tried to achieve. It is easy enough, he believes, to write music that will draw tears out of the emotional listener, but few composers have succeeded in pulling a laugh. Not even jazz can do it. Cowell thus promises to become the progenitor of a race of U. S. musicians exclusively devoted to the Comic Muse. France has already started such a line with Eric Satie and his followers, the "Group of Six."
Anna Pavlova, aged 39, Titania of the Imperial Russian school of romantic choregraphy, is soon to embark or a farewell tour of the U. S. This in spite of the fact that her last appearances here were also farewell appearances. This time, however, it is "positively farewell," because Anna, says her manager, S. Hurok, is weary of the discomforts of travel. Consequently, a
rather unexacting final circuit has been arranged. It will consist of four weeks at Covent Garden, London; three and one-half weeks at the Metropolitan Opera House, Manhattan; then a "season" in San Francisco; finally a first, last and only tour of Australia. Thereafter the most skilful toes in the world will be on view only to a select band of pupils in the Pavlova London home. Anna expects to devote the remainder of her days to painting and sculpture.
The New Pictures
Lily of the Dust. The German. Hermann Sudermann, cornered considerable applause when he wrote The Song of Songs. Later, Edward Sheldon brought it to life behind the footlights. In the natural course of events, its next metamorphosis was into celluloid. Famous Players were the alchemists; Pola Negri the heroine; and Lily of the Dust the title.
The small body of professionals and the huge mass of private commentators on the cinema who possess a respect for literature have been raging against the tampering with titles these many years. Yet the manufacturers contend that thereby is their product the more easily and widely marketed. Therefore, Lily of the Dust. Which simply goes again to prove that the cheaper the materials involved in: the manufacture of an article, the greater the profit.
Pola Negri gives a perfect performance of Pola Negri. But as Sudermann's Lilly Czepanek (tall, fair and willowy), old friends of the book will disagree with her. Yet for the millions who want Pola Negri, it is to be said that she contributes one of the finest performances she has given since her films began to be stamped “made in America."
The story leads her from an obscure position as librarian to marriage with à German Colonel (Noah Beery); to the arms of a young Lieutenant (Ben Lyon); and finally to an unhappy ending. In the elaboration of the story the picture develops its highest values. By kindling a spark of interest that smoulders steadily, bursting into flame with the shrewdly-considered climax, it marks a notable achievement for director Dimitri Buchowetski.
Messalina. Ennio was only a Persian slave who asked nothing but to be left alone with Ela, the little Greek girl. Roman life in 41 A.D., he found, was more complicated than that. He was too handsome. Before the picture was half unreeled the Empress and one of the most luxuriously affluent Princesses were contending for his favor. Finally, he smashed up his chariot in the great race in the circus. None of this narrative, even the smash, was dangerously exciting. Probing elsewhere for values, one finds the picture useful chiefly as a reincarnation of Latin life. The forum, the circus and the homes of the patricians were carefully and generously revived. The Italian cast, led by Rina de Liguoro, fitted favorably enough. If the drama could be deleted, the picture would make an excellent adjunct to any school's efforts to instil into the stubborn minds of students the glory and "the grandeur that was Rome."
*Little French Girl
Old Dog Tray Becomes the Fairy Prince
The Story. Madame Vervier was an exquisite person. Her salon in Paris, her garden at Cannes, her sunny cottage on the cliffs of Brittany were filled with other exquisite personssavants, artists, connoisseurs of life. Madame Vervier was a powerful person, important to all who knew her, all important to more than one. If she left her husband for a lover and then had other loves, that was courageous as well as reckless. If she forfeited her position in le monde, that was her affair. Madame Vervier lived true to her lights; and they were clear, honest lights.
But there was Alix, her daughter, a grave, dark child in her mid-teens. Alix spent half the year with her father's father, the remainder with Maman, under the terms of the divorce. Tradition, strongest in the outcast, dictated innocence for a jeune fille; ultimately a husband, un foyer. For jungle life outside society's pale, however free and beautiful, had its fierce dangers, its pain. A mother seeks to spare her daughter these-and Madame Vervier was a devoted mother.
There was no question of Alix' innocence. Maman had many friends, was resourceful as well as exquisite. When Captain Owen Bradley, their charming English visitor at Cannes, visited them in Paris on his leaves from the front, all three laughed and made merry together. He talked much about "Toppie," waiting for him at home and showed them her saintly face in a locket. He talked of how Alix would see Toppie and all his family, in England, after the War.
Then Captain Owen was killed. To pay a debt of hospitality and to hoard more memories of him, his family asked Madame Vervier to let them have Alix for the Winter. To keep Alix innocent and to put her in the way of a safe marriage, Madame Vervier was more than willing.
The Bradleys were like bread and butter, so kindly and useful. Giles Bradley, Captain Owen's plain and philosophic younger brother, worshipped the austere Toppie hopelessly. He made Alix feel wonderfully safe. When Alix discovered that Maman had been more to Captain Owen than Toppie had been, and that he had betrayed them both by not telling his family of the Paris visits, life would have been unbearable without Giles' understandstanding. He went with her to France,
*THE LITTLE FRENCH GIRL-Anne Douglas Sedgwick Houghton Mifflin ($2.00).
met Maman, understood her too. He saw how necessary a safe English marriage was for Alix and, with the fidelity of Old Dog Tray, led her back to England to find one. But Alix was no longer a jeune fille. When Jerry Hamble, utterly eligible, proposed, she was too anglicized to marry him without loving him. Besides, everyone found out about Maman's irregularities. There was nothing to do but return to France and stand by Maman in the inevitable tragedy of her advancing years.
Thus all hung for a moment upon Toppie. When she retired to a convent to end her days in ghostly communion with her dead disloyal Owen, Giles came to himself, crossed the Channel, was changed from Old Dog Tray into the Fairy Prince.
The Significance. For its acute penetration of the French and English tempers, its rich, complete personalities, its sure, translucent substantiation of subtle motives, its warm humanity, its rare good taste and rarer good humor, this is as fine a book as one might ask for. The dignity of mind and manner are those of a gentlewoman; the cool, easy prose and the bookmanship are those of a gentlewoman of letters.
The Author. Anne Douglas Sedgwick, though born in Englewood, N. J., can scarcely be called an American writer. She is thought of as one, but with less reason than in the cases of other illustrious emigrants Edith Wharton and John Singer Sargent, for example. Her nine years of childhood in the U. S. were watched over by a governess before she went to live in France and England. Since then, 1882, she has seldom returned and never for long, though her many novels have reached the world through American publishers. Her home is in Oxfordshire; her husband, Basil de Selincourt.
death, day by day, in the cabin kitchen where Ma Holtz made peppermintdrops for her son to hawk in the streets. Sometimes the girls in Miss Martincastle's school patronized him, Flora Lee once among them. Having seen, Admah never forgot her. Her arrogant and perfumed phantom lived in his memory while he put the peppermints behind a counter, bought a candy store, a chain of them, became Candy Holtz, leading citizen. The Peakes went down the front stairs while he climbed up the back. The old mansion was put up at auction; he bought the bed and coverlet and sent them to Flora Lee, with his compliments. She married him for his money and went systematically about softening him, as tainted honey rots the oak that chambers it. He lost his wealth, she deserted him, then both followed their blood until he was a river front soak, and she, one gusty night, crept back back to die in the old house on Innes street under the coverlet whose motto was: "The dog for faithfulness, the pheasant for luxury, the swan for lust."
There is a happy ending, deftly provided, that does not matter. What does matter is a novel that presents almost perfectly a tragic, if common, social phenomenon-a novel with guts and sinew under its smooth skin of literary urbanity.
THE TATTOOED COUNTESS-Carl Van Vechten-Knopf ($2.00). Fleshy and fleshly, but not without wisdom, is the Countess Nattatorrini after 20 years of middle-aged self-indulgence. Sneaking a cigarette in the women's toilet-room of an Iowa-bound Pullman car (anno 1897), she reflects upon her frothy life as the widow of an Italian noble, upon opera, jewels, acquaintances raffinées no end, upon a hulking lover she kept all unfortunately. In Maple Valley, she is welcomed for having been baptized there. Ella Poore was her Main Street name and since she left there have sprung up a new depot, waterworks, brick paving. The Countess is euchred, kettle-drummed, lap-suppered, picnicked, violently bored in every small-town way. Then up turns Gareth Johns, curly-headed, 17, and articulate. She enfolds him in her ample eroticism, he in his hunger for the horizon Off they go together to the everlasting hurt of Lennie Colman, Gareth's tragic schoolmarm. Village Parcae squawk the devil's chorus.
One feels kindly toward the author for having written The Tiger in the House Peter Whiffle and The Blind Bow Boy. But this Countess tale levies a super-tax on one's patience, so full is it of bad writing mingled with good, of cheap, pink-necktie'd flatulence cluttered over real understanding.
America Should Be Proud
How Laurence Stallings will dislike the title I have written on this column! He is not the sort of person who indulges in mock sentiment-yet he need not accuse me of mock sentiment. His Plumes is as fine a novel of the War as has been written, and why should anyone who thinks so not say so as plainly as possible?
Mr. Stallings is a critic of no mean power. When you first meet him you gain an impression of bulk, and of a winning smile. He is a Southerner with a soft Southern voice, and he has many of the ingratiating qualities which are often associated with gentlemen of the lower part of the U. S. His attitude of mind is eager, even penetrating. So alert a mentality is apt to be a trifle impatient of the slowness of others' minds. Mr. Stallings is not characterized by literary or intellectual patience, although, as a man, I imagine, he has unusual understanding and tolerance of other folk and an immense amount of personal bravery.
Since he has been writing the book columns of The New York World he has developed a large personal following, and for a good reason. His reviews are brilliant, carefully conceived, and show a background of reading which is unusual in one of the youngor so-called "young"-school of criticism. I suspect him of being impatient with daily journalism, yet I wonder if he is not too nervous, too eager a mentality ever to be contented to confine his abilities to the writing of novels and plays. He is one of those persons whose nervous energy drives them to constant work. There is something about a frequent copy date for a writer of this type that is as necessary as an opiate. I am convinced that journalism is an essential stimulus for this type of per
Presently Laurence Stallings' War play, Glory, will be seen on Broadway. It, too, will be sardonic, perhaps even more so than the novel; but if it possesses the same driving quality of passionate understanding that is manifest in Plumes, it should prove to be a drama worth seeing.
Mr. Stallings, like most of those young men who were active in the War, does not care to have his War experiences discussed. In this instance, they were heroic ones. That he has been able to see them with detachment, and to view the War with fairness, is one of the things that make him the very unusual person, the very fine writer that he is. J. F.
The Best People. If the visitor will promise himself not to take this play seriously, he will probably have a rather amusing evening. For it is another younger generation jeremiad and proposes that two rising scions of the wealthy Lennoxes marry, respectively, chauffeur and a chorus girl, to mix into the decadent family veins a strain of
"The question will probably not be solved"
common sense, that presumably comes with commoners.
Younger generation plays are falling into the category of popular songs; they all remind you of something that was published last year under another title. Accordingly, The Best People displays its youth (brother and sister) immoderately bored with their own expensive section of humanity. Sister is engaged to the silliest ass English Lord that has been dragged up from antiquity and dusted off with modern slang in quite a period. Brother has set his heart on a dumb-but-honest chorus girl.
Thereupon, Father and Uncle George arrange a supper party with the latter lady, hoping, with the unpleasant intolerance of Babbitt opinion about chorus girls, that they can ward her off with wealth. By a curious coincidence common to the stage, Sister is in the same café with the family chauffeur, and Brother is somewhere downstairs, very drunk, and jealous because his fragile flower is getting her evening's fodder at the expense of two elderly unknowns. By the end of the scene everybody has
strayed into everybody's else private dining room and there is a great deal of talk about going to Turkish baths to sober up in time to go up to Greenwich and get married.
In the last act, the authors (David Gray and Avery Hopwood) twisted. themselves out of the clutches of their plot via a supply of idiotic philosophy from Father, who concludes that, after all, the chorus girl is probably the only one who can stop Brother's drinking and that Sister will certainly have some common sense thrown into her by the savage chauffeur.
James Rennie wears the latter's livery and puttees and, though he is always rather an inflexible actor with a single mood, makes much of it. Gavin Muir had an amazing flash in the first act as the wobbling brother. Yet the masterpiece of the evening's acting was fashioned forth by Florence Johns. Those who remember her extraordinarily restrained and tragic performance last year in Children of the Moon will be interested to learn that her new venture invades the opposite realm of the cheap, wise-cracking chorus girl, friend of the brother's bride. Avery Hopwood (coauthor) has done, again, for her rôle what he did so well for similar characters in The Gold Diggers. She bears the burden of the piece and makes it actively amusing.
The Dream Girl was Victor Herbert's last legacy to the world. Last year, a short time before he died, he composed the score which, for various reasons, was delayed in process of production. Possibly the delay was fortunate, for thereby the Shuberts found the time and patience to dress it with deserved distinction. Fay Bainter was recalled to musical comedy to play the star, and Walter Woolf, the finest baritone currently singing light music, was engaged to be her lover.
The story dates from an old play called The Road to Yesterday. The characters stare soulfully at the spotlight and wish for the romantic glory of the Middle Ages; the lights go out, stage hands scurry and scenery bumps in the darkness; the lights revive on a 15th Century garden. Victor Herbert snatched the opportunity to inject a rousing old-fashioned marching-drink