THE MICHIGAN DAILY
SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 17,, 192
SUNDAE', FEBRUARY 17, 1924
THE MICHIGAN DAILY
WIFE OF THE CENTAUR.
Hume. George 'H. Doran
A. first novel is all well e
its author-by a happy accid
published and there's timee
worry when the second one
process of making. But fo
viewer a first novel is Witter
-young first novel (like thi
almost certain to be bad; a
it's not utter rot, there must
thing good about it. The
of winnowing the sheepf
goats is what grays a critic
Cyril Hume is (or was
young man, and is still trem
most colorful Shaw's "Saint Joan," ask a dozen intelligentsia, every one
the most maddening, but "The Mir- of them will tell you the same tale
acle" s the most stupendous and of "Sons and Lovers" and then add
gorgeous.ra string about sex, sensuality, and de-
'ADVERTISEMENT-._ _adenceabout literature.. That's Law-
It seems that the Players aregonlgrence's penalty for being Lawrence.
novel the book is pretty autobiograph- to produce A. A. Milne's "The Dver As a matter of fact, the author of
cal. Thomas Caldecott Chubb, a Yale ,Road," next Wednesday (the 17th) "The Captain's Doll" by no means
poet, figures in the latter partas and that Henderson is indisosed to confines himself to sex-for evidence
intimate friend o the hero ;.Stephen adthtHeersnis hloedt
t.write an account of it for his column. his peans to the -solar plexus, and
By Cyril Benet is brought in for a moment n Hhis hell-fire and" brimstone. hunt for
Company. a thin disguise, and there is another He doesn't like to write advertising,h
who I houd pobalyrecgnie h sas.the IT .that- is underrfniting--'American
whre I famuldrwth e e So he told me that it was charming, literature. .I don't know whether Law-
noghf re aiirwt New Haven an- Sohtldmtatiwscarng rence ever reached the consciousness
ent it go gelology. But the book is not simply witty, an evening of ooesome fun ofthe plexus, and I'm nigh certain he
transliterated autobiography; what for young and old, und so weiter, and; ne met
enough tonermt up with IT, but the fact
biography there is undergoes the al- asked us if we would be so good as top
is in the remains that he tried. And in Kan-
rs the retering magic of art and becomes genu- write an advance notice for him. roo h h tif. deserted
)r the re- garoo he . has still- further deserted
r beer. A ine literature. The cast will., he says, be brilliant, the mysteries of male and female,
s one) is I believe that, admitting all its many The settings will be executed by the choosing instead the political and so-
nd yet, I faults, it is the richest - handsomest, Players theynselves in their little clal welter of Australia. The change
be some- most substantial "young" first novel Playshop that used to be a Fire House is a good one . . . not perfect,
business of its kind we have yet had, when the Tappan School was still a perhaps, but vastly more satisfying
from the -Jno: Panurge. school. than poetic excursions into anatomy
's hair. Oh yes, A. A. Milne is a clever young' . .
) a Yale PLAYS AND THE STAGE Englishman. And we won't tell you 1 "Kangaroo" sounds like a symbol;-
nbling be- (Continued from Page Two) any more about it because we might instead it is the nickname of one of
ANCIENT UMIVERSITIES tradition whch belongs to all our
(Contiued from Page One) !institutions of higher learning, the
institutions themselves are, as the;
as in the twentieth century, while the which all college and university men
author remarks, the forerunners of should know and cherish."
the present day institutions. "Theykd
are the rock w ence we were hewn,
the pit whence we were digged. The' I so often wonder about you as to
fundamental organization is the same, whether inside the big high-colored,:
the historic continuity is unbroken. squinting, solemn husk is living a very;
They created the university tradition wise person or a very unmitigated"
of the modern world, that common fool. -"Figures of Earth,":
In these days I am forbiddingly calm. I have not, of la
tCose burning-lava-like depths of moroseness; nor have I pl1
out and glided swallow-like through blue ecstasy.
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tween poet and novelist. That is the
cause for the irritating, aggravating,
worthless, and valuable part of his
book. His poetry is at once the best
part of his stuff and the cause of the
worst. Anybody at all might know
that in order to be a good novelist,
a writer must have something of a
poet in his make-up. Hume has, but
often as not his centaur goes thun-
dering off into poetry instead of step-'
ping sedately through the steadier
paces of prose.
The story is a case of the eternal
toss-up between the ideal and the ac-
tual (and hence he practicable) moti-
vated by that equally eternal human-
fraility called love and all done in
terms of the golden youth that more
or less inhabits our colleges.
Shall Jeffry Dwyer, the campus poet,
the Yale BMOC, the budding novelist,
marry Inez the ideally lovely, the
cruel coquette; or shall he chose
Joan, the sweet, charming, sympathet-
ic creature? Both girls have their in-
nings, he marries Joan, Inez returns,
Joan almost loses; but, in the cen-
taur, man triumphs over beast and
his passion, sublimated, turns to po-
etry. "I've never written anything
like it in my life before! It's poetry.
it's great poetry! . ." "Poor
dear,' she thought. "There are blue
rings under his eyes." So peace came
again to Eden.
Because Mr. Hume is a poet he
writes well and easily. But for the
same reason and because he is yet
young he sometimes sloshes around
in words. Most people, when they
catch a symbol in a title, are satisfied'
to, let, it remain there. Not so Mr.
Hume. He expounds his symbol in
_pages of the beautiful italic -type 'Mr.
Doran hasbeen so kind as to allow
him at the ends of chapters. The
various books are set off with quoted
poems and an occasional book is sep-
arately dedicated. A lot of decora-
All these are the stigmata of youth.
The real business of the book itself is
satisfying in spite ofthe disconnected,
episodic ramble of the narrative. He
can't forget the campus because that
was life and still is life for him.
But- accepting this limitation-and is
it not the limitation of all the very
young writers?-accepting this, one
must admit that he does catch the stuff-
of life and make it live again in his
Falling in a class with the firstj
novels : of Stephen Benet and Scott
Fitzgerald, it seems a more satisfac-
tory production than either of these.l
It is better than the first by being less
collegy and less amorphous; it is not
so intellectual as Fitzgerald's, there
is not that keen and acrid humor that:
makes Fitzgerald's youngness less ob-
jectionable than it might be. Instead;
of humor, Mr. Hume substitutes a sort
of high sentimentality which values
and .recounts. certain scenes which'
give thea ppearance :of- having. been-
well considering her complete lack of
previous experience, but it .is Lady,
Manners who presents the most per-
feet characterization of the produc-1
tion. She is at once wistful and
tragic and compassionate-a beautiful
sermon in dignity. It is quite impos-,
sible to imagine a more fitting and
The German actor, Werner Kraus.,
portrays the puzzling and much dis-
cussed part of the Piper. It is he who i
contrives the many tribulations thrust,
upon the distracted Nun, yet it is also1
he who saves her in every crisis. To,
a certain degree, he seems to be a
kind of sainted Satin. His crimes both
torment and delight him. He is al
masculine Kundry, whose terrible1
punishment is that he cannot resisti
"the terrible life slipping through his
veins." He is, in short, Man the in-
carnate human, who wants to do rights
and always does wrong.
Finally, there is the remarkable in-
fluence of Reinhardt himself. 'He has
brought to the theatre, in his past pro-
ductions realism, color, movement, and1
vivid life, and now in "The Miracle"
he is giving us the mystery and super-I
stition and exageration of the Middle
Ages. His production is highly dis-
torted and frankly grotesque, yet thesef
is a verve and profound truth about it
that supercedes. any, production, I be-
lieve, presented in this country before.
It is a revelation in stage technique, a!
veritable miracle in mass action... .
So to repeat, "The Swan," by Ferenc
Molnar, is ,the most perfect play inr
New. York, "Cyrano de Bergerac," thet
your fun. And that
never do... .
IN NEW FIELDS
By D. H. Lawrence
Thomas Seltzer, $2.00
If you ask any odd dozen people
who D. H. Lawrence is, the chances
are that not one of them will know;
that's his penalty for being a good
writer. If you ask a dozen school-
marms, probably at least one of the
crowd will- hazard a guess that he
wrote a book called "Sons and Lov-
ers," that was not published serially
in the Atlantic Monthly. That's his-
penalty for doing good work. If you
the book's leading characters. He is
a high-minded fellow,- leader among
the social intelligentsia of Australia-
or at least, the part of Australia with
which Mr. Lawrence is concerned-
and along with two or three other peo-
ple, each representing a different
branch of social thought, forms the
background for the mental gropings
of the hero, an idealistic Englishman
dumped into the antipodes. The Eng-
lishman, being an idealist, is deter-
mined to find something at least akin
to justice in the civilization of the
new land . . . and there rests
You will notice that in the fore-
going paragraph, I've used the word
'social' twice and hinted at it an-
other time. This indicates the tem-
per of the book. In it Mr. Lawrence
is after ideas, social ideas, and has
101-105 SOUTH MAIN
330 SOUTH STATE
"A strange and terrible catastrophe had for long bee
" the uniformity of everyday life, in the busy emptiness of
minable routine of existence. Even a few months before
going on as usual, and none imagined that anything soul
which was not a mere repitition of yesterday."
A-sallow discontent with my work, with the town and
in it, slowly rises about me. I am not suited to my work a'
ahead e, me. The smudge of a machine shop suffocates me.
of production-record problems entangle me in their strin
cooly write out application for, another job.
At night I am lonesome. I sit before a coal fire and
listen to common sense arguments and go home filled wit)
to overcome my imaginary unfitness. I cooly tear up the
another job. And yet . .
"If he had been asked, he would probably answered ur
that was not the most important thing, and that one could
But something oppressed him, crept between him and the
a grey -cavity in the place of the future, and awoke in hi
nervous excitement which envenomed all his surroundings.
And in this calm, almost lethargic state I find great
sadness and moroseness of this of Artzibashef's. It is but
have of pitying myself.
But Russian novels all tend to grow monotonous to me at
aside to dream-maybe of Cyrano. Slowly letting the few rex
fall against my knife I think of his retort to a friend who c
for throwing his purse to a distraught manager whose show
"Ah, but-what a gesture!"
Or lonesome and wondering where are my friends or i
any, I reread;
But why stand against the world?
What devil has possessed you now, to go
Everywhere making yourself enemies?
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Watching you other people make friends
Everywhere-as a dog makes friends! I mark
The manner of these canine courtesies
And think, "My friends are of a cleaner breed;
Here comes-thank God!-another enemy!"
And then I will read of his fantastic trip-to the moon
he might have gotten there, especially enjoying his second p1
I might construct a rocket, in the form
Of a huge locust, driven by impulses
Of villanous saltpetre from the rear,
Upward by leaps and bounds."
Ha! Or I take refuge in Cabell. In The High Place I Ilk
ially, a murder which will seldom be mentioned, in comps
". . . Then they drank, but not of the same win
Duchess of Puysange. And the boy, Gian Paolo, died withou
" 'It is better so,' said Florian, 'Time would have spoil
life, Gian Paolo, and would have shaken your fond belief tl
slave in everything. Time lay in wait to travesty this velv
harsh beard, to awaken harsh doubtings in the merry heart
your lovely perversities with harsh repentance. For time
you escape him, Gian Paolo, unmarred'."
But these dreams and this leafing through my books, re
delectable morsels, does not shut out as it used the sombi
I feel an intenseddesire to go to church but the thought c
sermon is forbidding while the nearest Catholic church is t,
which distance on Sunday morning is also forbidding. And
distinct and persistent. In the confession of John Cowper Po
in a volume, The Confessions of Two Brothers, I find as prec:
as I know concerning just such an attitude towards church:
" --I love to 'dally' as I call it, with the more gi
of religion. Innately I regard religion-the Catholic Church
as a noble and beautiful work of art, constructed anonymous
for its own satisfaction, and offering a lovely and romantic e.
banalities of existence.
"I am not in the least troubled by its inconsistencies or
If it were not superbly impossible, if it did not come fla
outside the closed circle, it would not he worthy of the
A rational religion is a contradiction in terms; and only tho
people are interested in suchr an anomaly. The value t
wonderful impossible invention having appeared at all upor
the fact that its appearance makes one consider once more,
likely it is that the real truth of the universe is somethi
absolutely different from anything that anyone has dared t
ligion at any rate must always have this value, that it pre
satisfied men of science from closing the door to staggerin
"As the supreme work of art of our race, I have the utr
for religion; and as a protest against barring out incredibi
I regard it with admiration. When however, it becomes
possessing 'faith', or having what is called the 'religious f
confess to a cold and complete indifference."
". .,.a lovely and romantic escape from the banalitie,
Such banalities as Cabell in Beyond Life calls the 'intermi
our grave-faced antics'. Cabell says ". . I meet So-at
inquire simultaneously, 'How do you do?" without either 01
expecting an answer. We shake hands, for the perhaps inat
that several centuries ago people did this to show that ne
was carrying a knife." And,". . . and indeed the majorit
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