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                            The Azure Adder

                                  THE
                                 GLEBE

                                VOLUME 1
                                NUMBER 3

                                DECEMBER
                                  1913

                              SUBSCRIPTION
                          Three Dollars Yearly
                          THIS ISSUE 35 CENTS

                           By Charles Demuth


The only editorial policy of THE GLEBE is that embodied in its
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broad enough to include every temperament from the most radical to the
most conservative, the only requisite being that the work should have
unmistakable merit. Each issue will be devoted exclusively to one
individual, thereby giving him an opportunity to present his work in
sufficient bulk to make it possible for the reader to obtain a much more
comprehensive grasp of his personality than is afforded him in the
restricted space allotted by the other magazines. Published monthly, or
more frequently if possible, THE GLEBE will issue twelve to twenty books
per year, chosen on their merits alone, since the subscription list does
away with the need of catering to the popular demand that confronts
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and foreign authors, known and unknown.

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three dollars.

         Editor            Associates         Business Manager
         Alfred Kreymborg  Leonard D. Abbott  Charles Boni, Jr.
                           Albert Boni
                           Alanson Hartpence
                           Adolf Wolff


                            The Azure Adder


                              To R. E. L.




                            The Azure Adder


                                   By
                             Charles Demuth


                                NEW YORK
                        ALBERT AND CHARLES BONI
                            96 Fifth Avenue
                                  1913


                            Copyright, 1913
                                   By
                               The Glebe




                            THE AZURE ADDER


SCENE. Studio of Vivian. Simplicity run riot is the keynote: white
against white; white walls and little furniture. The furniture is
painted gray, Vivian's gray--really white.

TIME. The ultra-present.

(The curtain rises. For a minute or two the stage is empty. Then enter
Vivian, through the door at the back of the stage, the only door in the
scene. He wears the dress of the ancient Greeks and is evidently just
coming from the bath, as shown by his damp hair. In one hand he carries
a few narcissi, while with the other he tries to arrange the folds of
drapery, which seem to hinder his movements. He arranges one or two
flowers in a jar, before the "Nike de Samothrace," whispering: "Yes,
narcissi, truly like Grecian things." He drops the rest of the flowers
upon the floor, removes the robe and starts to comb his hair before a
small mirror. This mirror is set in the back of a large framed
photograph of the "Venus de Milo" that hangs near the door. Vivian turns
the Venus photograph to the wall and we see the small piece of
looking-glass. He finally rouges his lips as a finishing touch to his
toilet. Putting on a coat but retaining the sandals, he moves towards
the door; on the way he picks up a hat, which he puts on carefully. As
he nears the door a knock is heard and the door is opened. Vivian takes
on the look of being in the higher heights of thought. Two girls are
discovered in the door-way. One, Yvonne, says: "Bon jour." The second,
Alice: "Hello." Both enter. Vivian passes them in the door-way without
speaking and softly closes the door.)

VIVIAN (outside). I'm going out. (And more softly.) Wait, wait.

(The girls remove their hats. Yvonne sinks on the floor, in front of the
couch.)

YVONNE. Oh, I'm so tired. I painted for two hours yesterday.

ALICE (sitting on the couch). How you work--and you would have painted
again to-day, if I hadn't stopped for you, no doubt.

YVONNE. Well, I was thinking about it.

ALICE. Ridiculous! Do you think that Beauty can be contemplated
constantly? One either becomes blind or mad--you painted for two hours
yesterday--ridiculous!

YVONNE. I've seen nothing of yours of late. Don't you work; don't you
paint, I mean?

ALICE. I'm waiting, waiting. For days, months really, I have felt as
though--how shall I put it--as though the scales were about to fall from
my eyes; at moments like these, as you know, when I really see the
thing, I paint. Between times, I wait, I wait.

YVONNE. Couldn't you work and wait, too?

ALICE. No, I must save all my energy for these supreme moments, when I
see Beauty in its essence.

YVONNE. Then you really work less than I thought.

ALICE (in an awed voice). Yvonne, how can you! I work constantly. The
air is my canvas, my nerves are the brushes. I work? God, how I do work!
To contemplate, to wait, to dream, is not this work?

YVONNE. I suppose so--but--

ALICE. Oh, I know--you all think, except George, that I do nothing.
Well, rather that, if it were true, than what one generally sees on
canvas, every year, at the Academies.

YVONNE. You think then that it is better not to paint at all and wait as
you say--than to do an inferior thing?

ALICE. Undoubtedly.

YVONNE. This waiting--what effect will it have--what will it do for you
or for Art?

ALICE. I wait. "To feel is better than to know."

YVONNE. If one really feels, perhaps, but to wait and wait and wait, you
know what the end will be?

ALICE. I hope to become like Beauty, myself--a living creation, a work
of art--even though I do nothing ever in paint.

YVONNE. Yes, that is the end--not really, however, because to change
Life directly to Art means--(The sentence is not finished, a knock being
heard at the door.)

ALICE. Here's Maud; she said that she would meet me here and bring
George. (She goes and opens the door. Enter George with Maud, sister of
Alice.)

GEORGE. Hello. I've just received a wire from Uncle Billy; he's coming
to talk over the magazine with us.

ALICE. Will he back it?

GEORGE (looking at Maud). He will if I can be with him and talk to him
for a day or two, I think. (They exchange meaning glances.)

YVONNE. A magazine--you're starting one?

ALICE. Yes, I forgot to tell you about it. Something like the "Yellow
Book." It will be covered in gray, though, printed on hand-made paper
with especially designed type--four numbers a year. Have you thought of
a name, as yet, for our child, the magazine, George?

GEORGE. Yes, it will be called the "Azure Adder." Gray and blue will be
the colors of the cover. Blue the color of the Soul and gray the
coloring of the Eternal Background!

MAUD. Wonderful--wonderful!

GEORGE. It will be, I hope. (He then addresses the three girls, who are
now sitting on the couch.) Intense, too, I want it to be. The first look
at its covers must create a mood for what one is to find indoors. The
same as a perfect house affects one; the stones and vines of which, on
the outside, tell of the truffles which are to be served by the mad
butler at dinner, inside. (To himself: I must remember that last; it's
away above their heads, of course--it's one of my best.) Blue and
gray--the two unfinished colors, when arranged as my design, will call
up the proper mood: a mood intense but languid, caring nothing for
results. I hope to make this, this caring nothing for results, the aim
of our child, the "Azure Adder." To teach the public, our public even,
to be satisfied with the unfinished, the artistically unfinished; the
thing which has no definite start or finish, but which is beautiful,
beautiful, beautiful even in the shadow of its bud; a bud which can
never open because--because--a worm is its heart! (Yvonne changes her
position on the couch.) The size, too, of the book will help in creating
the mood--seven by thirteen--and the paper on which it is printed, also,
will help. A paper made in Japan, under water, which lasts only three
years. It then falls apart, insuring our child only a future, no past,
nor any permanency, except perhaps in the minds of its readers, perhaps,
perhaps. The "Azure Adder" will have double pages like the books of the
Japanese, printed on one side, so that the mere reading of it will be
made difficult for the uninitiated--people whom it is not meant for
anyway. The first number must strike the note--the ultra-future note--so
I will give to our public my dance-poem, "The Candle and the Black Water
Lily." A poem, have I told you, which I hope to have danced sometime. It
must be danced by one person while a chorus of men and boys chant the
words, in place of music for the dancer. How it will appeal, simply
alone, in the book, I don't know, without its proper atmosphere. It
almost required a new language, I felt, when I wrote it. Still, it must
be the first of our first number--ultra-modern and a new art--think, a
new art! And the illustrations, what a chance you will be, "Azure
Adder," for the artist illustrator! A sweep of a brush, a tone, a dot is
enough for our purpose; when Beauty is sitting by the side of the
reader. Yes, I see a revolution in book illustration, a glorious one, an
upheaval, one never-to-be-forgotten revolution, which, looked back upon
from the far distant future, will have at its base, forgotten or
remembered, who cares, the "Azure Adder"!

MAUD and ALICE. Ah!

(Yvonne rises, walks towards the large window at the back, a sky-light
really, opens it and leans out during the following.)

ALICE. If we can only get it started--we know very little about such
work.

MAUD. That makes no difference. We all paint and all great art is one in
its complete state. We can surely run a magazine. If only Uncle,
George's Uncle Billy, will start it financially!

GEORGE. Oh, he will, I'm sure. (Smiles.)

ALICE. Whose stuff will we print in it besides our own? If we could only
get something from some of the great living ones! But we can't hope for
more than one or two things from them, at most, perhaps nothing, unless
we prove a great success.

GEORGE. You doubt our success? You lack egotism, my dear. I have already
a poem, by one of our greatest living English poets. It's written in
Italian.

MAUD. Of course it's beautiful.

GEORGE. Of course, everything of his is.

ALICE. Strange that he should send you a poem written in Italian. It's
beautiful, you say--I didn't know that you read Italian?

GEORGE. I don't--Palidino read it to me. I asked him what it meant, what
it was about. He said that he did not understand its meaning--but the
sound of it, as he was reading it, was magnificent. It is a masterpiece!
Its meaning is clear to me--Palidino understands nothing which is really
fine. The poem tells by its sound that the poet writes of love, the love
which is perfected by death.

MAUD (to herself). "The Triumph of Death."

ALICE (softly). George, you are wonderful; it is fine to feel as finely
as you do--I mean it, really I do, George.

GEORGE. You are beautiful. (Pause.)

MAUD. Still, it seems that we ought to have more people to write for us.
I can think of only a few, one or two, who do good stuff, really fine
things--impressions.

GEORGE. Oh, that will be all right. We have enough material for our
first number. The demand will create the material. We will get plenty of
stuff sent in from unknowns, I think, for our future numbers.

MAUD. If not, we can all write things for it. I know that we all do
write on the quiet while posing as painters! Don't you write, Yvonne?

YVONNE (from window). No, I only paint.

MAUD (with a sneer). But--oh, well--you do read Kipling and Whitman;
that's the reason you don't write, I suppose.

(No answer from Yvonne.)

ALICE (angrily). Maud!

MAUD. Yes, that is what I mean. Art is not the glorification of the
beef-steak! "Good red blood" is what you hear their admirers talking
about principally. "Healthy" is another one of their pet words, also
"men and women." They are all meat--they forget the swaying sea-weed,
the waxen asphodel, the rose which is sick.

GEORGE. Yes, you are right. If they had their way, nothing would remain
but the normal. And as normal beings act usually in a commonplace and
unchanging manner, birth, love, death, literature, would finally lose
all material for existence and both schools would either cease or write
literature about literature. A fine end this would be for their good,
red blood. No fear, though; there are always plenty on the other side,
like us, to make the scales balance, perhaps even tip our way. Meat, the
glorified beef-steak, as you call it, Maud, has had its day. It has made
a good fight throughout the centuries, but it is going, going--and to
us--whom it called abnormal, sick, degenerate, will soon remain the
field--yes, through what it called our weakness we shall conquer!

(Maud leans forward. Alice looks hurt. Maud is about to speak when a
knock is heard at the door.)

MAUD. I'll go. (Goes and opens the door.) Camele! (She embraces and
kisses Camele in the door-way.) Camele!

(They come down to Alice and George. Camele is carrying canvases,
painting materials, a kimona and a suit case.)

ALICE and GEORGE. Hello!

GEORGE. Let me take some of your things. (Takes her suit case.) Lord,
how heavy!

CAMELE (sinking upon the couch). Heavy--I have everything in it that I
own. I couldn't stand it any longer--last night it reached a
climax--it's all over, my married life--all over, girls! I've left Jack!
Last night he struck me! (Sobs.)

MAUD (to George). The glorified beef-steak variety--how common!

GEORGE. Common, perhaps. (To himself: One can strike a woman for lots of
reasons.)

(Yvonne comes from the window.)

ALICE. Poor Camele--lie down. Let me take off your hat.

YVONNE. What can we give her? Let us make some tea.

MAUD. Yes, do. You and Alice make tea. I'll sit with her a while.

(George, Alice and Yvonne busy themselves making tea at the extreme
right, leaving Camele and Maud at the extreme left, on the couch. No one
speaks for a moment.)

MAUD (sitting at Camele's head strokes her hair). Poor girl.

CAMELE. Maud?

MAUD. Yes, dear.

CAMELE. You were right; Jack is a brute.

MAUD. All men are.

CAMELE. So you have often said, but I thought that he was different.

MAUD. Brutes, beasts.

CAMELE. But we were so happy at first--the first months--

MAUD. Really happy?

CAMELE. Yes, I was happy. I painted and Jack was with me between
times--yes, I was happy and calm.

MAUD. You only thought so; I knew that it couldn't last. I know you too
well.

CAMELE. Yes, you were right, I suppose.

MAUD. And what now?

CAMELE. I don't know--I broke with the family when I married him, as you
know--now, I don't know.

GEORGE (from the tea table, to Alice and Yvonne). I'll go for some
lemons. (He goes out.)

MAUD. What a mistake to have married, Camele!

CAMELE. No, it was not a mistake. I'm not sorry even now. (Sits up.)

MAUD. Camele, Camele!

CAMELE. Well, it's the truth, I'm not.

MAUD. But what will you do--where will you live?

CAMELE. I don't know yet.

MAUD (after a pause, in a pleading voice). Come with us for a while.

CAMELE. Maud, all right--to-night--just to-night until I have time to
think.

MAUD. As long as you like--Alice is used to me protecting widows and
children. (She puts her arm around Camele.)

CAMELE. Just for a day or two; I'll hunt for a position to-morrow.

MAUD. You had much better write to your family. They'll forgive you when
they know that you have left the brute. To think of him striking you!
Where did he strike you?

CAMELE. Strike me? What do you mean--where did he strike me?

MAUD. Why, you said when you came in that Jack had struck you last
night.

CAMELE. How common of you, Maud--I thought that you would understand. I
didn't know that any of you took things literally--you didn't used to,
when I knew you before my marriage, and I knew you all very well.

MAUD. Very well, indeed--so he didn't strike you?

CAMELE. Yes, he did.

MAUD. Eh?

CAMELE. Yes and no. You see, Jack had been away for a week. I had been
painting rather hard and was very interested in an arrangement of blacks
I was trying to get. Subtle--blacks against blacks. It was coming along
well; I liked it in parts very much. It was finished almost, yesterday,
before he came home. Then, last night, he returned. I was tired, but
decided to show him the canvas, as he asked what I had been doing. We
went up to the studio. "Stand there," I said, and turned the canvas
toward the light. It really looked good: the tone was the best that I
had ever had in any of my canvases. He looked at it, and I at him. He
seemed to understand, at last, my work, I thought. He had never done so
before, which I realized only after we were married, and which came to
worry me more and more. "You do like it?" I asked. "Yes," he said--"it
looks like a Sargent!"

GEORGE (returns). Here are the lemons.

MAUD. You did right--come with us! To live with him now would be
impossible. Strike you--he did more--he tried to kill you--your soul. He
wanted you to go--he knew what he was saying and how it would affect
you. How you must have suffered before the final crash of last night
came!

CAMELE. Yes, and no, again. I don't believe that I hate him half as much
now as I did last evening.

MAUD. Camele, he has spoiled you completely. To hear you say that, after
what has happened between you, horrifies me.

CAMELE. You were never married.

MAUD. Meat! Meat!

YVONNE. Come, have some tea. Come, Camele.

(Maude and Camele, arm in arm, move towards the tea table, while George,
followed by Alice, comes and sits on the couch. The others sit around
the table.)

GEORGE. Why do you insist on following me? Stay with the girls over
there--hear the joys of married life.

ALICE. Joys--I am more interested in knowing why you did not come to see
me, as you promised last night?

GEORGE. I didn't promise--I said "probably."

ALICE. That's your word--but you usually come. Why not last night? You
knew that I wanted to see you very much.

GEORGE. I had something to do. I couldn't get away.

ALICE. Then why not have telephoned to me? Maud had opera tickets given
her--I missed "Tristan," waiting for you.

GEORGE. At last we have the real cause of your bad humor, which is not
on account of my non-appearance but your missing "Tristan und Isolde."

ALICE. You know, George, that that isn't true.

GEORGE. You started this argument--why cry if you are hurt?

ALICE. Cry?

GEORGE. It's the same as crying--and tears, you know how I hate them.

ALICE. Unless they be sprinkled on withered rose leaves, yes!

GEORGE. It's always the same thing; you constantly insult my taste and
brain.

ALICE. No, not your real taste and brain--they are fine and great. I
only insult the veneer. I try to show you yourself,--this part I will
save for you and sometime return to its owner intact.

GEORGE. Save?--how can you save something which you have never had?

ALICE. That is my affair.

MAUD (from the tea table, her voice raised in an exciting discussion).
Bernard Shaw--

GEORGE (to himself). Bernard Shaw? (To Alice.) Well, save yourself the
trouble, I will never accept that from anyone--my real self.
(Nervously.) Alice, don't bother about me--I don't want you to, do you
understand?

ALICE (laughs). You dare to command me? Well, let us both play the same
game. Tell me--why didn't you come to see me last night--what did you
do?

GEORGE. I did nothing. I wished to be alone. Solitude and silence
produce great art, I believe.

ALICE. Not when one is our age!

GEORGE. Alice, I don't understand you to-day. For some time I've been
thinking that you were changing; losing the fine sense of appreciation
which you have always had for so many things in life and in art. Now, I
am sure of it.

ALICE. Don't you understand? Well, as I said--solitude is for the aged.

GEORGE. Solitude and silence, two wonderful words. What they call up in
my mind! Solitude for the physical and silence for the mind. It is in
these states that Art flourishes in its greatest form. Art is turning
back to the works of the primitive artists, early Italians principally.
And it is here that it should turn--it should turn back to Art and not
to Nature, which only holds it back. And we who expect to figure in this
new Renaissance must live as our masters, cloistered, alone, removed
from the material, within ourselves--as Angelico or as Fra Filippo
Lippi. For from the cave of Silence comes the flame of creation, and we
who hope to receive a spark of this flame must worship in solitude, as
monks and as nuns.

ALICE (smiling). But have I not heard something about a rope ladder in
connection with Fra Filippo Lippi?

GEORGE. Legends--inventions of the common mind which sometimes are
chronicled by still commoner ones--and thus accepted finally as facts.

ALICE. Truths, I should say.

GEORGE (jumping up). I am going out!

CAMELE (in a boisterous voice). Schopenhauer, I prefer De Mau--(Her
voice is lost as Alice's is heard speaking to George.)

ALICE. Don't run away, George, I want to talk with you. I think that you
are beginning to understand the change in me, the new Alice, let us
say--and I want to make sure of it.

GEORGE (sitting down). No, I do not understand the new Alice.

ALICE. You will not, would not be nearer the truth, I think.

GEORGE. No, I do not is exactly what I mean.

ALICE. I will try again to show you then, George. (She moves closer to
him. George starts to move away from her but changes his mind evidently
and sits still.)

GEORGE. I'm ready for the revelation, Alice. Make it as long as you
like. It will probably be our last real talk together.

ALICE. Why?

GEORGE. Because--because we have nothing in common--this new Alice
pose--I can't think of it as anything else but as a pose--has or will
come between us and break up our friendship.

ALICE. And in breaking up our friendship it will produce something much
finer.

GEORGE. Finer? that is the finest thing in life--friendship.

ALICE. It is the beginning only of the finest thing in life.

GEORGE. Alice, you don't mean to say--Alice!--Lord!--you're not
making--(She blushes and turns away her eyes.)

MAUD (from the tea table). They give "Parsifal" next week. (George tries
to become composed.)

ALICE (speaking across the stage to the group). I know one of the
"Flower Maidens." I get "comps."

(Alice glances at George, who has failed to become composed.)

ALICE (after a pause). George?

GEORGE (weakly). Well?

ALICE. Do you like my pose as you call it?

GEORGE (looking at her). Is it a pose?

ALICE (after they look intently at each other, drops her glance). Yes.
(Meaning no!--and adds more excitedly.) Yes, yes!--I was only acting to
see what you would do. (But she takes his hand.)

GEORGE (noticing it but showing no objection). Alice, what is happening
to us? Here we sit hand-in-hand! It's like bad vaudeville!

ALICE (smiles). I don't know--what do you think?

GEORGE. Don't ask me. I don't understand. I can't think. I don't know.
Perhaps we are about to have a new George!

ALICE (in a suppressed tone). You understand!--a new George--you shall
come to-night!

GEORGE. Yes!

ALICE (looking away but tightening her hold on George's hand). Mine.

GEORGE. What did you say?

ALICE. Oh nothing, nothing.

GEORGE. Alice--to-night. Now, let us go over to the tea table. Maud is
watching us.

ALICE. Do you want to go?

GEORGE (rising from the couch). No.

(Alice rises also, and they both move towards the table, George
following. He carries their cups.)

MAUD. Well, have you been talking magazine--"Azure Adder"?

GEORGE and ALICE. Yes.

ALICE. We were arranging details. We will have all the titles of stories
and poems printed in red. Don't you think that that will be good?

MAUD. Not red, blue I should say.

GEORGE. Well, in some color, red or blue.

MAUD. Blue is the better.

YVONNE (rising). I must be going--is anyone coming my way?

GEORGE. We all must be going, I suppose. I must go to the station and
meet Uncle Billy.

(Yvonne crosses the stage; the door at the back is opened suddenly and
Jack, husband of Camele, is seen.)

CAMELE (starts up from the tea table and looks frightened, saying in a
whisper to George). Hide my suit case.

JACK (in the door-way). Oh, I beg your pardon--is Vivian in?

ALICE. Hello, Jack--come in. Vivian is out.

JACK. I wanted to see him. He wishes to rent the studio for several
months, I hear.

ALICE. You can wait for him, we are just about to leave.

JACK (coming down stage, sees Camele at the tea table). Hello, Cam, what
are you doing here?

YVONNE (from the window). What a sun-set! Come and see. (They all,
except Camele and Jack, go to the window.)

CAMELE. Maud asked me to lend her my kimona. She wants to do some
Japanese dances--I brought it to her.

JACK. I didn't know that you were friendly since we were married, Cam. I
was surprised when I saw you.

CAMELE. Don't call me Cam, Jack. Try to call me Camele, here. And make
the "a" long.

JACK. Does it shock them? They make me--(seeing her canvases and paint
box). What are you doing with your canvases and paint box?

CAMELE. I was painting in the park. The canvases--the canvases--oh, I
was taking them to be framed.

JACK. All those?

CAMELE. Yes, it will be cheaper having them all framed at one
time--don't you think?

JACK. I hope so. We are so hard up at present.

CAMELE. Are we? Well, they can wait--the canvases, I mean.

JACK. I must have some clothes.

CAMELE. Again?

JACK. Again? Look at these.

CAMELE (coming close to him). You look all right, I think. (She puts her
hands on his shoulders.)

JACK. Are you ready to go? I'll not wait for Vivian.

CAMELE. Kiss me, Jack.

JACK. What for--what's the matter with you? You look tired and pale.

CAMELE. Nothing--kiss me. (They kiss. Maud, looking back into the room,
sees them. She turns quickly, picks up her hat, puts it on and hurries
out.)

CAMELE. Let us go.

JACK. All right.

CAMELE (putting on her hat). I'm going. (The others come from the
window.)

GEORGE. Yes?

CAMELE. Yes!

JACK. Here's your kimona.

CAMELE. That is for Maud.

ALICE. Where is she?

CAMELE. She went out--she'll be back, I guess.

CAMELE and JACK (moving towards the door). Good-bye!

ALL. Good-bye!

YVONNE (following them). Good-bye.

ALICE and GEORGE. Good-bye.

GEORGE (after a nervous silence). I'll see you to-night, Alice; now I
must go to meet Uncle Billy.

ALICE. Then you can't see me to-night if he is in town. You will have to
arrange about the "Azure Adder."

GEORGE. The "Azure Adder"--my life's work--my magazine. How I do wish to
get it started! Think what it means! A perfect magazine given to the
world after years of darkness. A book perfect in printing, arrangement
and in illustration--as beautiful to look at as a masterpiece of
painting or sculpture. What a standard it will create when it is
published! It will stand alone--nothing but what will suffer when
compared to it. It will be above other publications; above them as a
golden star over a world of night and ignorance--all will be beneath it!
And I who have conceived it will be lost in its splendor. Like a
bumble-bee is lost in a lily of silver. Laboring, laboring on for it to
the end, through old age, perhaps from beyond the grave. What a
life--yes, "Azure Adder," I give to you my time, my energy and my
talents. (He grows more and more excited and is now speaking to
himself.) I will make of you an aesthetic standard, an artistic gauge
and a religion! A new religion whose one and only Goddess will be
Beauty--Beauty veiled, alone and sterile! And we who work for you will
be its first priests--the priests of a new religion! You know what that
means? It always has meant, and will mean in this case, I hope,
martyrdom and perhaps death! Death for our gracious goddess--to whom I
give my mind and my body! Yes, great and awful goddess, they are yours!
(He stands, with his arms outstretched, against the door at the back.)
Do as you will! (In a loud ringing voice.) They are yours forever!!

ALICE (smiling, walks up to him). Thank you.

GEORGE (in the same voice). To you, great goddess, I give my mind and--

ALICE (facing him, puts her arms around his neck). George!

GEORGE (relaxing. In a softer voice). Great godd--

ALICE (drawing him closer). Now, George!

GEORGE (wilting. His arms slowly closing around Alice. In a whisper).
Great goddess--

                                Curtain.


                       The January issue will
                       present "Love of One's
                       Neighbor," by Leonid
                       Andreyev.




                          Transcriber's Notes


The original spelling was mostly preserved. A few obvious typographical
errors were silently corrected.