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A Parody Interview in Baffle Land
Notes Upon the Youngest Generation, and Other Comments and Criticisms of the Newer Books
JOHN RIDDELL
EDITOR'S NOTE: This month our literary critic, little John Riddell—he is just turned three, and quite old for his age—has gone to Baffle Land with David Binney Putnam and Elizabeth Benson and Cornell Woolrich and Nathalia Crane and Beverley Nichols and the rest of the Youngest Generation, on board David's nice ship, the Morrissey. We think it's just great that John and his friends are having such a fine party, and we are awfully glad that he has sent us this dandy travelogue written all by himself
En Route to Baffle Land, February, 1928
WE are on board the Morrissey way up here in the frozen North, and we are sailing to Baffle Land on an exploring expedition to find ourselves, and discover, if possible, whether life is really worth living. We all feel that it is a very good thing for us Young People to have this interesting experience, because as Betty—that's Elizabeth Benson—says, children must have experiences so that they can grow older.
It is the purpose of our scientific expedition to explore the Facts of Life, so that we can discover What Matters, after all. This is a very important discovery to make, not only for us hut also for succeeding Younger Generations, and so we are going to make an effort up here to chart the True Course of Existence, because of course the maps our parents are using are awfully out of date, and we want to find out the truth for ourselves about Things. Why are Things?
THE Morrissey is steered by Cap'n David— that's David Binney Putnam—who is allowed to take the wheel because he is the only one of us who knows more or less where he is going, and, anyway, he owns the boat. Elizabeth Benson does not steer or do anything but talk, because she is a writer; but little Cornell Woolrich is studying very hard, and he is being tutored in his work by Scott Fitzgerald, of Princeton. Nathalia Crane is also here, and we always "kid" her about having a crush on Lindy—because she wrote a poem on Lindbergh all by herself and won a prize. Glenway Wescott is very nice and I like him better than Louis Bromfield, because Louis thinks he is a sheik. They both signed on as cabin-boys. Nancy Hoyt is a flapper, but Elizabeth Ann, the President's Daughter, would be all right if she didn't insist upon talking about her father all the time.
"My father was known as the FrontPorch diplomat," she said archly, "but, boy! you ought to see him on the back-porch!"
"Perhaps he should have been Vice-President," suggested Beverley Nichols. I forgot to say that Beverley Nichols from England bunks just below me; he is slightly older than most of us but he does not act so. He is always asking us questions, so we call him the British Harriette Underhill, or just plain "Pest."
We have been drifting around up here for quite some time, and it has been getting as cold as anything. There is a lot of ice for this time of year, and Beverley Nichols has been amusing us slightly by harpooning the old sea-lions and whales that go floating by us on their cakes. Beverley is pretty clever with his harpoon and almost always lands his prey, because he usually strikes the creature in the back when it is not looking. (In addition the creature is often dead anyway). The only thing we all wish is that after Beverley has harpooned the old lion, or whatever it is, and dragged it up on deck to show us, he would not insist upon standing with one foot on its head until it has been photographed. As a result you can never see the lion in the picture, because Beverley is right there in front of it.
There was heavy pack ice coming out of the north at a terrific rate this morning, and the going was pretty hard and slow. Cap'n David was at the wheel, and as the ice began to close in around us, and we really didn't seem to be getting anywhere in particular, we decided to send someone up onto the bridge to interview him about it. Beverley said he would like to go, because he was used to handling interviews.
"I shall call my interview," he added over his shoulder with a bright smile, " 'David Binney Putnam; or, The Boy Grew Colder.' "
We all thought that was very clever, including Beverley; and so while we were waiting for him to return, we discussed sex and other outworn ideas. We all agreed that sex was oldfashioned and dull and would probably die out altogether with our Generation, and Nature was really much more important, and Nathalia read us a little poem she had written about Nature. She said she called it The Eskimo Boy:
"I love the ice, I love the sleet,
I love the wintry hush,
I love the snow, but most of all I love the slush"
She said that she wrote it herself, and hoped it would win a prize some day.
SEEING so much cracked ice floating by reminded Cornell Woolrich at this point that it might be nice to stage a party while we were waiting, and he said he was sure we could borrow some ginger ale from the Eskimo Boys, if anybody had the Scotch. Nancy Hoyt said slick, but Betty Benson pointed out that neither she nor her mother drank, and she suggested that we use the ice instead to make ice-cream.
"I think ice-cream is so much more sincere than cocktails," said Betty.
"What is Sincerity?" asked Louis Bromfield cynically.
"Sincerity," said Nancy Hoyt flippantly, "means living with one woman at a time."
"Children should be obscene but not heard," replied Glenway sternly.
In the meantime the ice had been coming closer every minute, surrounding us on all sides. The large pieces now growled under our very bows as we struggled forward in the gathering darkness.
"Where is this jazz-mad Generation heading?" demanded Cornell, nervously executing several steps of a Black Bottom as he peered ahead. "What is life but a mad scramble for sensation—hey! hey!—dance-crazed, inhibited, pocket-flasked, garter-snapping, profane—hey!—what matters but wine—and women—and song—do deo do do, do deo do—"
"But we .must find ourselves," said Glenway earnestly. "We must discover whether life is really worth—living. In my great-greatgrandmother's day ..."
A large cake of ice hit the side of the Morrissey with a crack that knocked the dishes over in the galley. Betty glanced at the chronometer, and then consulted the map of Baffle Land we had been following. She shook her head.
"It is our parents' fault," she said, slowly tearing the map into little pieces. "This chart they gave us is all cock-eyed, and we are suffering the penalties for their carelessness. We have cast off their narrow conventions, just as we have cast off hobble-skirts and corsets; and now we must search alone for the Facts of Existence."
"TWISH I could set foot on a solid fact," -l sighed little Nathalia weakly. "This drifting around is making me feel a little sea-sick."
"Perhaps there is no such place as Baffle Land," suggested Louis with a leer. "Perhaps we are all lost forever in a floating sea of uncertainties, filled with these great dark questions that rush at us from the darkness and threaten to grind us to pieces. Heh heh heh ... "
"What is to become of us?" shuddered Glenway. "What is the—answer?"
"What," sighed Betty, "is life?"
There was a cheery hail, and Beverley descended the ladder briskly from the bridge. We surrounded him eagerly, and asked him if he had had a satisfactory interview with Cap'n David. He was busy making notes on his cuff.
"A splendid interview," he nodded absently, "one of my best. David let me take the wheel, and I explained to him that I would make a better pilot because I see through things. In fact, as I explained to him, that is my whole secret. I am a brilliant modern young man. Granted. I play Debussy. (I even ivrote Debussy, but he signed his name.) I was captain of my rugger team at school—ridiculous, what? I have written, heigh ho, a book or two. I am very good looking, a bit of a wit, and the life of every party. I adore the smell of lilac. I smoke Lucky ..."
"But what did Cap'n David say?" interrupted Betty.
"Cap'n David? Cap'n David?" echoed Beverley blankly. "To tell the truth," he recalled, "I didn't give him a chance to say anything."
There was a savage shock, and the Morrissey shook from stem to stern. The great icebergs towered above us. Nathalia clutched Glenway in terror.
"It is getting dark," she whispered.
"It is as dark—as Life itself," groaned Glenway in a hollow voice.
"The ice is surrounding us," shuddered Betty, as Cap'n David left the wheel and started to descend the ladder. "We cannot escape."
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(Continued from page 76)
"Cheer up," said Beverley wittily. "Maybe this ice isn't all it's cracked up to be."
There was a brief scuffle by the rail, a distant thud and a splash, and then the sound of Beverley's voice calling once or twice for help, far, far below. Cap'n David leaned over the side, then straightened and dusted off his Arctic mittens with a sigh of relief.
"If anybody's got any further cracks to make," he warned, "he can make them in the ice."
The shadows were closing in upon us once more. At any moment we seemed doomed to crash. Destruction stared us in the face.
"We are lost," whispered Elizabeth Ann.
"Lost— in a sea— o' Doubt," echoed Clenway in a hollow voice.
"The Lost Generation," grinned Louis.
"Heading for disaster," hissed Cornell.
"Hot diggety," said Nancy.
We turned helplessly to David Binney Putnam, who had unlaced his boots and coiled comfortably in a corner of the deck.
"Whither," breathed Betty, "are we drifting?"
"Nowheres," yawned Cap'n David, shutting his eyes contentedly. "There's no danger. We're all froze fast."
And here we are.
(DAVID GOES TO BAFFINLAND, by David Binney Putnam. Putnam)
(THF. YOUNGER GENERATION, by Elizabeth Benson. Greenberg)
(ARE THEY THE SAME AT HOME? by Beverley Nichols. Doubleday, Doran) (CHILDREN OF THE RITZ, by Cornell Wool rich. Boni & Liveright)
(UNKIND STAR, by Nancy Hoyt. Knopf)
MR. SANDBAG'S SONGBURG
THE AMERICAN SONCBAG is the leviathan of them all: the most complete collection to date of the folksongs of lumber-camp and forecastle, cow-range and darky spiritual, and bonfires at dusk along the railroad-ties. Mr. Finger's FRONTIER BALLADS may have been more loving in its treatment, MY PIOUS FRIENDS AND DRUNKEN COMPANIONS had the humorous assistance of John Held's matchless burlesque woodcuts; but Mr. Sandburg's workmanlike collection is so conscientious, so authoritative and so complete that it necessarily towers in importance above any casual anthology of ditties.
In appearance it is disappointing, rather suggesting in its stingy decoration a cloth-bound hymnal on top of the Sunday School piano; nor was I entirely won over by Mr. Sandburg's slightly Achmed Abdullish dedication to "those unknown singers—who made songs— out of love, fun, grief— and to those many other singers— who kept these songs as living things— etc.—oh, etc.—" But it is the work of an honest artisan; and by its very bulk and scholarly attention to detail (there are 280 songs and ballads between its covers, with complete harmonizations for piano experimentation) it assumes without doubt first place among such American anthologies. All in all, it does create behind its pages a background of the rich, raw poetry and the sentimental moods of its singers—it has the creak of leather and the scrape of picks and the long lonely wash of the sea. It certainly has more of America in it than any American history I have ever seen.
(THE AMERICAN SONCBAG, by Carl Sandburg. Harcourt, Brace)
MALORY + BEARDSLEY
In their splendid new edition of Malory's LE MORTE D'ARTHUR, as illustrated by Aubrey Beardsley, the publishers have put forth a beautiful and distinguished work. Now one can only point out, for the hundredth time, how opposite and yet how strangely complementary were the geniuses of Malory and Beardsley in this instance, where the primitive, fabulous landscape of Malory is peopled with Beardsley's beautiful, precocious children, with their long legs, swollen heads, and delicate features. The illustrations for LE MORTE D'ARTHUR were the first to win for Beardsley recognition as a master among black-andwhite artists, and this edition includes ten drawings omitted from the first edition and two that have never before been issued in LE MORTE D'ARTHUR. (LE MORTE D'ARTHUR, by Sir Thomas Malory, with illustrations by Aubrey Beardsley. Dutton. $15)
DIRTY WORK IN PERU
The ring of applause has now formed solidly around Thornton Wilder, with the publication of THE BRIDCE OF SAN LUIS REY, SO that no one can be especially excited as we determinedly elbow a way forward and wedge ourselves into the enthusiastic circle. Of course, though not much attention was paid to Mr. Wilder's first book, THE CABALA, when it came out, everyone is now remembering it as a still vivid and very personal (oh! how personal, Mr. Wilder must be saying) experience. THE BRIDGE OF SAN LUIS REY, which purports to be an investigation into the supernatural element in a quintuple tragedy in Peru on July 20, 1714, is naturally a more solid and finished piece of work than THE CABALA, it is longer and higher and wider and more handsome. But we deny the general self-protective suggestion that Mr. Wilder has undergone any great emotional awakening, any visitation from the Holy Ghost, since THE CABALA. He knew quite well what he was doing in the earlier work, it is certainly (and intentionally) "slighter" than the present one, but it is mature and selfconfident work. We recommend that when you have finished THE BRIDCE OF SAN LUIS REY, you search out THE CABAI.A and read that too.
(THE BRIDGE OF SAN LUIS REY, by Thornton Wilder. A. & C. Boni)
(THE CABALA, by Thornton Wilder. A. & C. Boni)
PORTRAIT
Even more admirable than the above, demonstrating what balanced intelligence, scrupulous draughtsmanship and artistry can do, is Bruno Frank's The Days of the King, bringing together three stories based on the life of the aged Frederick the Great. The first impression is that they are readable; the second that, whether or not they are true, they consummately seem to be true; the third that they are triumphs of perfectly integrated lucidity; the fourth that they are rereadable. In a simple, marvelously paced style, Herr Frank lifts his magnificent and enigmatic hero, as well as the minor figures about him, into a reality more fully realized than they themselves in the flesh could possibly have had.
(Continued on page 107)
(Continued from page 90)
(THE DAYS OF THE KING, by Bruno Frank. Knopf)
MEDITERRANEAN MONKEYSHINES
Allan Updegraff has published several variously undistinguished books but in Whatever We Do, his latest, he has begun to come into his own. He has developed a highly coloured and yet sufficiently supple style, he has something to say, and he has written a tale that is definitely entertaining. Whatever We Do begins on a note of festival gaiety in a Mediterranean village, where a group of American visitors submit themselves to the pagan humours of the Southern airs. When the reader is quite off his guard, the story slyly projects almost sinister connotations. Make of them what you will. And the contents of that will... (WHATEVER WE DO, by Allan Updegraff. John Day)
ENCOMIA AND DISMISSALS
Doc STORIES FROM PUNCH, illustrated (delightfully) by George Morrow. (Doubleday, Doran). An all-tooapt-to-be-overlooked collection of casual canine whimsies by Milne and Herbert and Lucas and the rest of Mr. Punch's staff, that is thoroughly English and thoroughly charming.
(Continued on page 118)
(Continued, from page 107)
WOODROW WILSON: LIFE AND LETTERS, by Ray Stannard Baker. (Doubleday, Doran). The most authoritative and revealing biography of a great— a profound study of the most important —simply a waste of good paper— indispensable to the historian, of vital interest to the average—who gives a damn if this Baker has—it belongs in the library of every—I wouldn't give it house room—no true admirer of our greatest President can afford to be without—now, listen, you don't know what—you listen to me—no, listen, now—listen, if he—listen—LISTEN—
NEW WINE, by Geoffrey Moss. (Doubleday, Doran). A tale of tough luck in Roumania, well and, in the cabaret scenes, interestingly told; but just the least bit hard to swallow.
THE BLACK JOURNEY, by GeorgesMarie Haardt and Louis AudouinDubreuil. (Cosmopolitan). This spirited account of the Critroen expedition across Africa, from Morocco to Madagascar, makes for some of the most thrilling adventure-reading I have had since Trader Horn. It is straight stuff, with all the tough pulls and all the thrills. In their arduous day-by-day march through steamy jungles, these modest explorers follow the thump of cannibal drums into adventures that make the notoriously camera-shy Martin Johnsons look like pikers.
REMINISCENCES OF A RANGER, by Maj. Horace Bell. (Wallace Hebberd). The crude, honest qualities of an old wood-cut make this rough and ready diary of an early settler in California rich with a mild, mellow humour.
A GOLFER'S GALLERY BY OLD MASTERS, introduced by Bernard Darwin. (Country Life, London). A book, oneand-a-half by two-feet in size, bringing together reproductions of paintings by old masters, chiefly Dutch, who have included anything in their canvases suggesting a golf-stick or golf-ball. It is an elaborate and interesting synthesis, showing the importance of the niblick in art and calculated to reassure all golfers that the game has been played by the Best People since Adam tore up his scorecard.
IT, by Elinor Glyn. (Macaulay). E. Pettit and Halliburton and Cummings and Witwer and Bruce Barton and the rest are hereby officially forgotten. At last we have discovered our pet prejudice for 1928.
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