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CONTENTS
VOL. I NO. II
Page
Anna Vaddock's Fame. By Vincent O'Sullivan. . 1
The Guardian Demon. By Francis Coutts. . . 8
Labour. By Augustus John . . . . . . 9
The Aesthetic of Benedetto Croce. By John Middle-
ton Murry . . . . . . . . 11
Drawing. By J. D. Fergusson . . . . . 14
In the Cool of the Evening. By John Harvey . . 15
The Letters of Vincent van Gogh. By Michael T. H.
Sadler. . . . . . . . . 16
Isadora. By Jessie Dismorr . . . . . . 20
Priestcraft. By Julian Park . . . . . 21
Drawing by Anne Estelle Rice . . . . . 22
Three Eclogues. By Arthur Crossthwaite. . . 22
Place de l'Observatoire. By S. J. Peploe . . . 25
Imagination. By Rhys Carpenter . . . . 26
Nature Morte. By Herbin. . . . . . 27
The Art of Claude Debussy. By Rollo H. Myers . 29
AUTUMN 1911
ANNA VADDOCK'S
FAME.
DISMORR
FERGUSSON
8
THOMPSON
16
THE LETTERS OF
VINCENT VAN GOGH.(*)
PRIESTCRAFT
I dwelt with Ammon in the tents of Thebes
When all the Nile in winding lines of white
Across the desert's dusty, sunburned face
Game, presents in their hands. They were my right,—
Fame, fear, and worship, and the power to smite.
THREE ECLOGUES
I.
With a movement now drearily monotonous, now twitching as
though half in anger at he knew not what, he bent hoeing the long
lines of green on the slope. His eyes were glazed and fixed on the
ground. There was something of malevolence in it all, in the crouching
curve of his back, in the vicious stab of the shining iron at the earth,
in the relentless advance along the rows. H e seemed to be part of the
field where he worked; as though it had turned to wound itself.
T h e sky all about was dull and d r a b : the trees bare and trembling
for their nakedness beneath the east wind. T h e end of the hill-side
THREE ECLOGUES 23
and the grey heavens seemed to melt into one dreary monotone of
grey, fading into brown beneath the curtain of steady mist that hung
damp and immobile over the hills. Yet at one tiny point a speck of
light began to show, at first feebly, but gaining strength as it forced
ever more of the mist and the cloud away. T h e birds had hardly
marked the light, when they began to pour forth a welcome: though,
as yet, the light remained weak, and the mists were still low.
T h e man paused from his movement to listen. As he stood motion-
less, there came from the distant hollow of the hills the sound of bells,
striking the hour. A t the sound, he slowly scraped his hoe, and
tramped heavily down the slope to where his coat and bag lay almost
indistinguishable. H e put on his coat and heaved the bag to his shoul-
der, still bent down.
T h e light grew stronger and stronger. Through the widening rift
the red fire of the sun streamed low over the hill slopes. T h e long
bare pines cast eerie shadows across the hills: yet all that was cruel
and devilish in the shadows the warm light burnt away. T h e hedge-
tops were caught in the burning glow. T h e mist-drops on the bare
twigs were shot with many-coloured fires. T h e birds now strove
against each other fittingly to welcome the light—the whole hill seemed
aflame with a thousand tongues.
H e lurched to the heavy gate, his back against the sun: and then
paused, to pull forth a foul black pipe. H e filled it slowly and put a
match to it. The gate clattered behind him, as he blew forth the smoke.
T h e sky was now all clear of cloud, save for a few wisps flecked
with silver and red. T h e round red ball of the sun stood clear and
brilliant. T h e world had come back to the life it had left. T h e brook
rushed valiantly over the stones. T h e sun began to touch the horizon:
the birds lifted their voices in one last full-throated symphony. T h e
red light seemed to glow to whiteness, to blend with the transparent
song.
H e paused: turned slowly half towards the sun: and spat in the
hedgerow.
II.
She turned wearily to the blood-red light that flamed through the
tiny window. H e r face, blanched and livid, seemed like an effigy
beneath the stained windows of an old cathedral, where marble features
24 RHYTHM
writhed under the stab of pain. H e r frail hands twitched. T h e red
rays made play with the crazy mosaic of the quilt and broke in a
hundred sombre colours over the room. H e r body trembled sudden
and quick with anguish. H e r sunken eyes were filled with the blood
of the sun. Heavy footsteps plodded along the cobbles to the door.
A short fumbling with the latch: and a broad, bowed man swung the
door to with a crash. H e dropped his bag heavily on the stone of the
floor, and sat at the little table to eat; and flung a few brusque words
at the woman.
She turned from the light. U n d e r her eyes he munched on brutishly
to the end. H e r gaze fixed half pitifully upon him. H e r quivering
nerves gave a sudden shudder as he rose kicking the chair from
beneath him. H e stretched himself, a Titan in the deep light, and
lurched to the window on the other side. T h e hard rasp as he opened
it shook her again. H e leant on the sill, his back one huge red curve,
and sucked moodily at a pipe. H e stopped to reach further through
the window, snapped his knife open, and scraped the ashes from the
bowl.
She turned back to the light, coughed a little blood on the white
of the sheets, and died.
III.
T h e preacher's voice rose and fell unctuously in the little church.
The infinite goodness of God rang through his periods. " T h e Father
will not suffer that any of his children pass unregarded." " T h e noble-
ness of toil, and the divinity that showed in the labour of the hands.
T h e life of daily labour on the fields was the noblest work of man,
the highest blessing of God conferred upon him; more honoured than
the pomp of kings, more peace-bringing than the lordship of empires,
more divine than the leading of armies." H e listened bowed and
wondering to the strange words and a blind disquietude showed like
a tiny spark within him. T h e voice died away to silence and the
church emptied.
H e trudged his way homewards and the little spark kindled into
groping words. A dull fury festered in his soul: fury against the fields
he trod, the air he breathed, the endless brown rows that he followed
every day, the clogging furrows, the dull ache in the limbs, the hunger
that clawed within him. T h e blind fury grew more coherent, more
T H R E E ECLOGUES 25
brutal, more pointed. A desire to lead, not to be led, to fight against
the God that set him there. Only to kill God—a little sweet sharp
revenge for a life of dull unheeded pain. To kill God—the thought
danced within his brain. His steps grew lighter and his shoulders lost
the sullen curve. The murder of God would be a deed, and the
murderer a hero. Only to kill, to watch the blood shoot forth—but
to kill God. There was almost a joy in his eyes. His steps quickened.
- He entered the low damp hovel and glanced round. There was a
child in the shadow. He seized and beat it brutally. The screams cut
through the air, cut into his brain. The light died out of his eyes.
God would not scream thus even before his blows. His form sank
back to the old curve, as he half released, half flung the child away.
He sank back upon a chair: his head buried in his arms. The child
lay still where it had been flung, and sobbed itself to sleep.
ARTHUR CROSSTHWAITE.
IMAGINATION
Moods Titanic, masters of the hills,
Mountainous in grandeur, unconfined,
This morning ere the sun rose and the wind
Y e were but waterdrops in oaken rills;
Footless ye were, and bound in leaf and grass,
T h e narrow confines of a leaf could hold
Yon vapour striving unto heights untold,
Rising above each mantled peak and pass.—
Ah, spirit, spirit, waterdrop confined
In tiny realm of purposes and will,
Beneath the sun thy vapours rise and fill
And Titan shadows move along the wind !
RHYS CARPENTER.
NATURE MORTIS. BY HERBIN.
29
THE ART OF
CLAUDE DEBUSSY
DISMORR
Je devine a travers un murmure
Le contour subtil des voix anciennes
Et dans les lueurs musiciennes
Amour pale, une aurore future.
Verlaine.
Music in France has been remarkable during the last century for
its vitality. Moreover, it has developed more independently than that
of any other nation, with the possible exception of Russia. For which
very reason, perhaps, it has been of late years rather a stumbling block
in the path of those "labellers" whose passion it is to classify art by
nationality and codify glibly what they are pleased to call "national
characteristics."
Of course it is true, not only theoretically, but historically, that
nationality has an influence upon art; but it is also true that the art
which is least obviously " n a t i o n a l " may be of the greatest permanent
value.
T h e impulse given to music in France by Cesar Franck and the
so-called Schola Cantorum was a strong and vigorous one; and, owing
its origin to great individual temperaments, it was therefore as markedly
individual as it was independent of external influence. Thus, in a sense,
it was "national," in so far as it was self-sufficing, but not "national"
in the sense that it merely reflected the conventional ideals and spirit
of the nation as a whole. T r u e nationality should be big enough to
include all the forms of true individuality.
But if the Schola Cantorum was individual and independent, still
more so is Claude Debussy—who belongs to no school; and yet his
nationality could hardly be other than it is. Born with the artist-
nature, and endowed with a sense of beauty of the rarest and finest
quality, he had not far to look for his medium—for music was in every
pulse of his nature—and he soon found for himself that strongly indi-
vidual mode of expression that raised around him and his methods the
30 RHYTHM
dust of controversy which has only recently shown signs of settling. I
myself heard hisses mingled with the applause when M. Debussy was
conducting some of his own works in London, not more than a year
or two ago. But, setting aside the gross incivility of this, the incident
shows how great an impression his music must have made, even upon
an unappreciative audience; for at least it made them afraid. But now
that his methods are more or less familiar to all, his meaning and aims
may need more explanation. And on this point it is worth while re-
marking that those who, after seriously trying to understand the in-
tentions of the composer, finally declare themselves opposed to him,
are not in the least to blame—for to understand and appreciate
Debussy's music, one must be in sympathy with the composer's outlook
and ideals. It is, of course, only possible to gather what these may be
from a study of his works; but the man for whom they carry no
message, in whom they wake no responsive thrill, as on hearing a
thought beautifully expressed that one has long felt without having
power to utter it, must turn elsewhere; for the composer will be
speaking to him in an unknown tongue;—the gulf of alien tempera-
ments is yawning between them. In this way the music of Debussy is
largely subjective; it depends for its appreciation on some similarity
of sensation between composer and hearer, and it is doubtful whether
even two admirers are drawn by the same subtle attraction, or admire
for the same reasons. To attempt a definite analysis of either the com-
poser or his music would be not only impossible, but useless. But, at
the same time, the external characteristics of his music cannot be
ignored—they suggest new developments in the realm of art in the
same way that the conception of a sixth sense suggests an extended
world of sense-perception for all humanity. But the significance of
Debussy's innovations is that they show, not only that music can rid
itself of all fetters and gain thereby, but that musicians are coming
more and more to see that it must do so, if it is to express the ever-
increasing complexities of life as a whole, and the ever-varying sensa-
tions of individual experience.
Briefly then, the salient characteristics of his music may be said
to consist in a free use of the whole-tone scale, unusual progressions
(as a natural result), and a lack of what is usually meant by melody.
The whole-tone scale, to begin with (which to some is all that Debussy's
THE ART OF CLAUDE DEBUSSY 31
music stands for), is not, of course, an invention of his—nor even was
he the first to adapt it to modern conditions. In his early youth Debussy
spent some time in Russia, and the music of Moussorgsky especially
appealed to him. And it was from Moussorgsky that he learnt the
peculiar properties of the whole-tone scale, and its artistic possibilities.
T h e outstanding feature of this scale is the absence of any "leading
note"—and it is probably this that produces at first on the listener a
feeling of incompleteness, that is displeasing because it is unfamiliar.
But so far from this in itself being a new departure, Debussy is in this
respect more indebted to antiquity than to his own inventive powers.
F o r he has drawn upon the old church modes, such as the Mixolydian
and the Dorian, and has made them part of the basis of his harmonic
system. But in his method of handling them he has, of course, opened
up entirely new ground. T h e elaborate harmonic system that he has
built upon them is very different from the bald open fourths and
octaves that in early church music were almost the only sanctioned
intervals. It is easy to see that with such a scale as this to build upon: