Evening Star Newspaper, April 10, 1932, Page 83

THE SUNDAY STAR, WASHINGTON, D. C, APRIL 10, 1932 HE afternoon of Wednesday, April 6. A military parade is in possession of the Avenue, that Appian Way eof Pageantry, stretching straight and wide between Capitol and White House. Washington is at its weather best, bland and radiant. March, surly and reluctant, bas finally taken leave. April is here. Down the way the regiments come, sol- dierly in movement and maneuver, perfect in eguipment. Bands ma'ie music. Hools beat staccato measures. Extemporized seats on the sidelines are filled. Windows above ase crowded. Just 15 years ago on this day, April 6, the United States entered tiie World War. This Wednesday afternoon on the Avenue is in cele- bration of that event. Moving back from the window group into the book rocm. deserted save for the filled win- dow spaces, I caught the sense of stir along the shelves, among the books. Of course not. But I did. For at that second a book, the big, swo-volume “Life of Our War President,” moved to the edge of its shelf. In but a slight min- ute there stood beside it “My Experiences in the World War,” by the commander in chiefl of the A. EE F Then others came, ferming into line. Believe it or not, but literature was mebilizing in that book room. War, by way of print, was joining up. The noisy windows chattered on. As for me, I scarcely breathed. Here was excitement. Beside the Wilson and the Pershing volumes there ranged themselves in perfect order the lives of generals, French, English, German. Records of fighting by land and sea, in the air, under the waters, on many a widely sepa- rated front. Stories of camp and march and trench and bettle. The striking of imnumera- ble zero hours Here the deafening roar of the devil's own devices for slaughter. Millions “going west,” out into the great forgetting. Little stories of . personal heroism. Short sketches of daring out into “No Man’s Land.” ©Oh, a thousand pictures of war in one er an- eother of its savage thrusts or grim secomds of waiting! Not believable, that mobilizing of war books wp in the book room. True as gospel, mever- theless. Though nobody noticed but me. No- body kmows those books but me, so how eould they realize! But there they were—true as preaching—keeping company with that ecele- bration down on the Avenue, an orderly pha- lanx of war literature, set out im all the prece- dences of rank and the precise routine eof fide. All but one. Just one in this impressive eompany of book soldiery had found no place. And for this one there seemed to be no place at all. Let us talk about the unfortunate hero of this book, for indubitably he is a hero. Better still, let us have him tell about it: TIME STOOD STILL: My Internment in Eng- land; 1914-1918. By Paul Cohen-Portheim. New York: E. P. Dutton & Co., Ine. title pretty nearly tells the story. Cer- tainly it accounts for the place, or no place, of this book, with the actual belligerents ranged along the shelves of the book room. Yet, hardly a more interesting story of war, at one of its points, could be found than the story lived by the German, Paul Cohen-Port- heim, as “an alien enemy” in an English prison camp. An “alien” to be sure. In technical war terms an “enemy.” In fact, however, a warm friend to France and England, where so much of his professional life as an artist had been wpent. At the moment of war’s really unsus- Devon into paint” when, suddenly, he was de- clared an alien enemy and herded inte a prison camp. Thae is the story of that term of ignominious Inactivity. of deadly routine, of stupefying bore- dom. Of days so unrelieved as to look for new paths between quarters in going to and from, %0 as to find some little change in the round- and-round of the day. The morning and its scant holdings of action and interest, the noon sagging away from even such enlivenment. The nights endless. The new morning just yes- terday’s, mot even warmed over. Four years of this. A cultivated man, herded without seclusion of any sort, without privacy for the most intimate of needs, without spiritual or mental contacts. What happened? A very glorious thing happened. No despair, no sink- Paul Cohen-Portheim pulled himself together, Huabednphsl\indpveneddplun.zw his spirit and became the artist that he really was and had for many years proved himself to be. He set out to paint it all in wpon this four-year spread of canvas, the English prison camp. Selecting from the dull day its most typical features, he set these down m fair colors of fact, without dipping the brush in The moods of the camp as well as their responding activities come and 80. The silliness of war as well as its sin steps out here, as clearly as it does im battie itself. Making the best of a bad job seasons this #tory with philosophy and a reasonable com- . Bosion: Little, Brown & Ce. RUNO BREHM has used an old-time method e The Military Parade and Books on the IWorld War—Julia Peterkin’s New Novel—The Theater From Athens to Broadway. Book Room Table. tions leading to the World War—twe of the assassinations, at least, being engineered by a “Black Hand society” of young men. The first of the killings found victims in King Alexan- der and Queen Draga of Serbia, in 1903, and the other, the spark which fired the world- wide blaze, led to the deaths of Austrian Arch- duke Francis Perdinand and his morganatic wife in Sarajevo in 1914. The complicated plots leading up to the assassinations are detailed by the writer, who adds his fiction in the form of dialogue. He gives vivid pictures of life ameng the ruling classes before the World War, and he tells of the thought behind the “Black Hand” plotters —politics, personalities, military pomp—all that seething mass of affairs of little nations and their peoples. The leading character of the novel is one Dragutin Dimitrijevic, known as “Apis,” who led the Serbian secret society blamed for the assassination of Archduke Prancis Perdiband. But the outstanding fea- ture of the work is the weaving together eof bistory and fietion. The book is illustrated with iwe splencid maps, and the original was published in Eurepe under the title of “Apis Und Bste.” C.E N. BRIGHT SKIN. By Julia Peterkin, author ot “Scarlet Sister Mary,” ete. Indianapelis: The Bobbs-Merrill Co. BYnydWMMiM,Mfl. Peterkin has once more delivered, alive and lusty, the Negro of the South. For the past four years, slow and painstaking. this writer has again made the rounds of her chosen piantation or community. The obe readers came to know by way of “Scarlet Sis- ter Mary.” With conscience as pricking as that ef a Puritan at his prayers, Mrs. Peterkin has de- voted herself to the Negro folk of this familiar spot. She has sat down among them, with the men, women and children. She has felt for them, and with them. She has noted their ways of taking life, of being taken by it. She has pondered the white man’s contribution to Negro existence in America, that trickle of white man's blood. So, following, feeling arnd appraising, forecasting. too. this writer has thought the love story of Cricket and Blue to be worth the telling. Blue, the black boy. Cricket, the bright-skin girl. By all odds the most poignant, the most pic- turesque, very likely the most tragic theme that can be érawn from racial problems in Amer- not openly, at least, with any sort of “melt- ing pot” theory. Her job, to turn the rica human stuff at hand into true art, whose office, all concede, is to illuminate life, is to separate it into seizable bodies that are more real than life itself. More real, because art has, rather divinely, imagined them into nearness, imto identification with some phase of man’s actual and immediate need. And here is the story. The Negro, injected with the white man's blood, to his present eon- fusion and sorrow. But, tomorrow—oh, let to- morrow take care of itself. Let us follow little Cricket cf the bright skin, living up te her heritage and bringing trouble to herself, to the black boy, Blue. No pressing of the theme. Indeed, theve seems to be no theme here so profound as a racial question. Instead, there is, in the main, the careless life of the Negro. Superstitious, music loving, song making idle, sunny folks with sudden gusts of a child's rage, loafing in the sun. Al this and more. Through it, run- ning the love story of Cricket and Blue. Cricket, the secret envy of the blacks, the open scorn of them. True work. Ne, no, not the kimd to read and cast off. Not that kind. Both feor the story and the method “Bright Skin” is a Book League choice. THE THEATER: Prom Athens to Broadway. By Thomas Wood Stevens. Drawings by the author. New York: D. Appleton & Co. ARDLY a more interesting engagement than hunting dowr. the beginnings of things, the beginning of almost anything. Prom midbloek to the corner a dozen suggestions for such pur- suit may be seen. But, we are all too busy chesing our own tails round and round, to pause for these minor seductions. Lueckily for Mr. Stevens ean write, more than words. Things, instead. And se the rccord runs here from the rise of the theater in Greece, on into Rome. Into the medieval period and out of it into the Renais- sance. With Italy, Spain, France and England responding, eaech according to its own genius. Tragedy, classic and comedy French, take on importance and weight in a fine amplification here. Great actors apnzar and move on. Les- ser ones, also, arrive. Craftsmanship improves, the art itself lifts, and sinks—for like all great life movements this on2, too, is a rhythmie rise and fall, the inevitable cadence of a master art. If you are looking for the history of the the- ater, here it #s. If, for a luring story, here that is, too. In both there is set out the dis- tinetion betweem drama and the theater, be- tween dramatic material lving about every- where and arama itself. The origin of the thester is an enticement. As you sit with the audience some night, when the play sags, as it so often does; whem the Thespians are of short-cut stripe, as they some- times are, forget it all Let you minds drift back, far back, to an Attic night when no theater had been dreamed. But, even them, the makirgs were there. FPor Dionysus was out in the moonlight, a Bacchus drunken of his own grapes. laureled with its wine. And his blood began to beat, o pound, to set up a swinging flov. His body swayed %o the tune of it, feet circling in patterns of poetry wpon the moonlit grass, hands waving in wordless measures through the crystal air. Now and then, a flute tone rang high and elear. Right there, so the story runs, drams itself was lifted, clean, from the mass of dramatic material lying all roundabout. To capture this bit of lyric revelry, drama became enshrined as art. The classic dithyramb came into being. One step more—a place to reproduce this Bacchanal of the moonlight and the flelds. A little place, with people seated around, and flute sounding high and clear, or whispering soft and low. And there’s the theater. The stage, the audi- torium with its audience, the orchestra. The actor, Bacchus himself, t> be followed by a train of Thespians reachin~ from Athens to Broad- way, from that distant Then to this flying Now. ANN ZU-ZAN: A Chinese Love Stery. By Louise Jordan Miln, author of “The Vin- tage of Yon Yee, " etc. New York: Pred- erick A. Stokes Co. ERE is the fifteerth novel drawn out of China by Louise Jordan Miln from her experiences in that emotion.. The father of Ann Zu-Zan loves his daughter much in the fashion of the rich man of the West who seeks for his child an alliance that premises good returns for him- self. Chinese father is a rich insect farmer. wide and beautiful gardens crickets are and butterflies and cicadas. These are n gilded cages that are swung bush art and an industry developed from the of them. such novel and enchanting And upon this thread of delicacy and charm Louise Jordan Miln fresh entertainment author Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott Co. NTO, this comprehensive survey of South Taking the continent, country by ecountry, this author examines each, or re-examines each for the definite instruction of readers in re- spect to is place and settlement and develop- =% §} B M1k gl Ehh. binds them together into an enormous umnit of industrial promise for the future. A readable book. Pree and clear in its oulstanding facts and purpose. Where a temptation must have stood by, in se much of material, the stady is, happily. one of straight cutline and unclut- tered effeet. On the Book Room Tables " TABLE,” just now, is a big albwm, opening wide upoa the Bicentennial year. Rather, a flock of albums, each packed with | portraits of Washington—the city and the man, Now and then a littie sketch goes along with the pictures, or a bit of verse. Look at this one—“The Charm of Old Washe ington,” by Ada Reiney and Seward Rathbun, Both artists, Miss Rainey in word sketches, Mr, Rathbun in drawings. The booklet comes from the press of Pranc E Sh-iry, D. C. As if these two had had the’power to Nt the big city of the prresont up and to set B aside for the mome~t, cisclcsing the wide and sprawling area of e"1ly davs, with Georgetown over there and Cap.io! Hi!l up yonder. Im be= tween, the Whiie Ho e and across the rives, Arlington Down the Potomae, Alexandria and Mount Vernon. Tual's all. But, together, evoking a glamor_us past that makes redolent and beautiful eviry :u-:ceding present of the great Capital c'ty. Upon eomvani>n p ges, facing each othes, these two artists set word sketch and drawing. Here are the we'l known poipts that need mno mention. Th>n, ot of Georgetown rises Tuder place and Dumbartcn House. Off from Capitol Hill, te the south. the Maples and Greenlead Point. In between. Lafayette square wheve Decatur House, th> H~ys-Adams house and the Corcoran mansion calls up many s shade of earlier days—statesman, diplomat, schelar— the unfulfilled and questing Henry Adams, with others, and others. Opening this slim book at its firsst pege touches adventure iiscif. Nothing but a drawe ing. A drawing of that old inn in Georgetown’ where Washington and L’Enfant stayed. A sincerely severe rkeicll, not an overtouch abouwt it. Yet thgt ‘scant and arifully proportiemed bit, is not actusl'y a sentient thing, but &t s beautifully alive still in its own hour and day. More of enthusiasm and perception? Suppese you decide, then. Lock at Decatur House (page 22), or the door of the Arts Club (page 34), Look at any of them Look at all of them. An unusual series of photographs by Theoe dore Hordemk, Warshington photograpber, whe has gained recognition for his work with lande scape subjects, has just been issued im beook form wunder the tit'e ‘Places Washingtom Knew.” The photographic reproductions, 46 in Dume ber, show houses and sites in the Polomag River region which were closely associated with the life of th: Furst President. Scenes i Washington, Al°xandria, Mount Vernon, Wile liamsburg and Yorktown are included. Views along the mew Mount Vernon Memorial Highs way also are shown. Many of the photographs have never before been published in any form. Included in the book is a reproductiom of the town plan of Alcxandria, Va., drawn by Washington when he was 17 years old. The original is in possession of the Library of Cens gress. ‘The publisher of the book is Ira L. Sumith, whe prepared the descriptive material accem- panying the photographic reproductions. Books Received CREATIVE EXPRESSION: The Developmend of Children in Art, Music, Literature and Dramatics. Edited for the Progressive Edu- ecation Association by Gertrude Hartman New York: The Johm THE CEHILD AND PLAY. Based on the yee ports of the White HouSe Conference em Child Health and Protection. By James Edward Rogers, director of National Phyes ical Education Service of the National Ree« reation Association. New York: The Cen< tury Co. THE AWAKENING COMMUNITY. By Mary Mims in collaboration with Georgia Williamg Moritz. Introduction by Charles W. Pipkim, dean of Graduate School, Louisiana State TUhniversity. New York: The Macmillan Ceo. THE ANCIENT CIPHER, OR GOD'S WIS- DOM IN A MYSTERY. By Eva Southgate Stewart. Seven volumes. Volume II. New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons. An Anthology of Mystical