NEW YORK H

# The Conning Tower

## To a Lady Convalescent in a Hospital

O MERCURY the swift! exert your powers
To speed all clocks and planets, that they race
Until the seconds shall outstrip the hours
And days go rushing by at such a pace

As shall the amazed metropolis confound

And give the office-girls no time to tear

One page from off the pad before the round

Of a new morning is already there.

And when, Lady, two weeks like hours have sped,
And of your books you have read none at all,
And of the flowers that stand beside your bed

No simple petal has yet dared to fall,—

Then, Mercury! restore sweet lingering time,
Slow! slow!—and please the author of this rhyme.

A. D.

79

In my day Cambridge was a town where many elderly people of conservative taste lived secluded lives in old houses - and perhaps almost starved themselves for several months in order that they might be able to give one perfectly appointed dinner at the end of their sacrifice.

Nobody in Cambridge valued wealth as such; but there were certain standards that must be lived up to in the matter of food and service; also there were certain standards in the selection of one's guests; and a dinner-party in Cambridge was no joking matter.

There was an odd austerity about the whold picture that was slightly comic, and also rather noble and self-respecting. I do not know what I think about it all now ...

When I was an undergraduate at Harvard, a very kind lady who lived on Brattle Street asked me to dinner on a certain night. She mentioned to me that it was to be a large dinner and that among the guests would be William James and George Santayana - who were among my living idols. Did I forget the invitation to this dinner? Anyone who knows the psychology of a boy will know that I did not!

No. I bathed, shaved, selected my best black tie and most unfrayed collar; I brushed my hair into a semblance of an intelligent arrangement; I put on my evening clothes; and with a very beating heart I sallied forth.

As I approached the house I was somewhat surprised to see that it was not very brilliantly lighted. But I knew some people an aesthetic dimness; so I proceeded.

At the door, I asked for the hostess. Yes, the maid said, my hostess was at home. I went in.

And my hostess received me with perfect graciousness. I sat

80

down and talked with her for perhaps ten minutes. Then with trembling bravery I said:

"I wonder if I have made a mistake. Didn't you ask me to dinner tonight?"

She was a very elderly lady - no child - but suddenly she laughed just like a child - "My dear boy, I asked you for a week form tonight! But now since you are here you must stay and have milk toast with me - and we shall have a lovely evening."

And we did.

Very likely it was more illuminating than the dinner a week later, a formal dinner; and James and Santayana, far away, were talking to others than the young student from Harvard the University. They were still the impersonal distant masters that they were on the lecture platform.

BEFORE SUMMER

O Summer, come, and on these hills of snow
The veil of all your ancient magic spread.
Come through the meadows with flower-crowned head,
That bleeding-heart may hang, and roses blow.

O Moon of Summer, come as once you came,
Filling our valleys with a mist of dream.
Pour down pale silver on each quiet stream,
And sink to westward like a sleeping flame.

O Love of Summer, come upon the night
When the low Moon to dusk has almost gone;
Come with thine own light leading thee alone,
With voice more soft than the Moon's tenderest light.
Only when thou art here, the lover knows
Why Summer's Moon is sweet, and Summer's Rose.

--Arthur Davison Ficke in
Scribner's Magazine

["85", "interested in poetry; he had no deep feeling for any of the arts; he was, Arthur thought, a rich play-boy who would probably graduate to the selling of bonds like other rich play-boys; and spend most of his time in social enterprise. Later, Arthur had, of course, to change his mind. over + include c85A", "He became more and more fascinated by German Literature which he studied under Kuno Franke. Although it leads us far into the future, this seems a proper place to quote what Arthur once wrote about Franke.", "All my life I have been a hero-worshiper. There has always been some eminent man whose personality and achievement I admired with passionate intensity; ... and I trust that all my days I may retain the power to be thrilled by contact with great and noble men.", "One of the idols of my college days was that lovable personality and inspired teacher, Professor Kuno Franke - who, alas, no longer is among the living. He was head of the German Department at Harvard -- a great scholar, an indefatigable organizer, and a mad lover of the great German poets.", "In my freshman year, I took a course in which, annually, he performed the difficult feat of lecturing several times a week to a class of three or four hundred godless louts and making us feel, really feel the excitement of the German masterpeiced. Naaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaaakaaa

86

excited by something beautiful he would splutter and gasp with peculiar mannerisms. His appearance was not impressive; he was, to use a horrid word, a little pudgy. At the beginning of the year, the class would sometimes burst into ill-mannered laughter. But this stopped. Even the most loutish of us came to feel the tremendous sincerity and interpretive power of the man, and we listened with respect.

Of course I, an obscure undergraduate, did not know the great man personally ... ; at Harvard in those days students and professors did not mingle much. I had never met Franke, and though he may have been vaguely aware of my face in his class, we did not speak when we passed in the street.

In my last year in college, I took Kuno Franke's course of lectures on "Schiller and Goethe". There were about sixty or seventy men in the class. Franke lectured in German; and I, by some feat of the will of which I am no longer capable, took my notes not only in the German language but in German script. He fascinated me, he enthralled me, as in this region that was the region of his immortal Gods, he spoke in his native tongue. His scholarship was of course unquestionable, his great humanistic view of his subject was impressive, and his personal passion would at times bring tears to your eyes. It was for me a year of wonder - as three times a week this privilege was open to me. This was the Germany of my dreams! This was the Germany of my Uncle Hugo Ficke, and the University of Freiburg! This was Goethe's Germany. Indeed it was.

An odd episode comes into my mind. In the middle of my last year in college, I got typhoid, and was knocked out for a month. Thus I was unable to take the Mid-year examinations. Since the

88

philological training and that were written in finely-expressed German.

A week later, at the lecture, Franke reported on the exam
examination. There were many men in the class to whom this was
a matter of life and death - graduate students who were working
for their doctor's-degrees, specialists in philology, etc. Franke
said that it was his great pleasure to tell us that he had been
unable to find any paper that did not merit a passing mark.
(Great applause) Tessa came into his eyes - he was a very
emotional man - as he said that teaching was indeed a rewarding
profession when a teacher saw that some of his students were
seriously devoting themselves to what he taught. (Great applause)
He went on: "As is natural, some papers have been better than
others, and I have had to assign grades. You will learn what
they are when you get your reports from the college office.

"But there have been six papers that have filled me with
joy, since I have found in them not only scholarship, but real
understanding of the great poetry of Germany. I congratulate
myself on having had the honor of lecturing to these men. They
will know who they are when they find that they have been given
the grade of 'A'.

"And there is one paper which, in all my years of teaching,
has given me the greatest pleasure. It is to interpret the
sacred German tradition to men like this that I have my life's
best efforts ... Gentlemen, good-bye!" given

I knew, of course, who that specially mentioned person was.
He was a brilliant and severe-faced Jew who had come from the
University of Wisconsin to complete his work for his doctorate.
And I knew that I would not get one of the six 'A's. I did not
care: I had learned about Goethe, and that was what I came for,
not for grades.

We filed out, pleased, and very regretful that the wonderful
year had ended. I happened to catch Franke's eye. He motioned
to me. I went up to the lecture-platform.

"Mr. Ficke, it was your paper of which I was speaking."

He smiled and looked at me intently. It was no small
moment in my life. The great Kuno Franke was aware that I
existed. Great courage came into me. I felt that I must be on
the right track - that I was not just some deluded plumber who
was fooling himself by thinking that he could be a poet.

"I thank you very much, Dr. Franke," I said. "I shall never
forget the year of these lectures. It is something to remember
always."

"Thank you, Mr. Ficke." We bowed and parted.

On that day, I walked on air. God, was I happy!

...His subsequent generosity to me was enormous. Over a
period of many years, he frequently wrote to me in his terse
emotional style; he always thanked me, with discriminating
criticism, when ... I sent him some book of mine; and he sent me
the books he wrote. I am not trying to boast: but it is
neverless true that, over the forever green grave of Goethe,
Kuno Franke and I touched hands.

When he wrote his autobiography, he asked an important
magazine to have me review it. I make no attempt to conceal my
pride in that fact. I loved him, and I understood him: and my
head stands higher today because I did. As he wrote a some
my father, etc., etc., all that I wanted my father to know about
that my father was not.

89

When the war came .. Franke offered his resignation from Harvard. To the great credit of President Lowell, his resignation was categorically refused. Yet the small assaults of the butcher, the baker and the candlestick-maker at length became too trying for even this great humanist - and he asked for leave of absence, and retired to the solitude of the country. The war broke his heart - this noble HERRN and generous teacher of the humanities. He knew before he died that the war-bitterness was past, and that the new Kuno Franke Fellowship was endowed at Harvard, to carry on his great tradition as long as universities last. But he was wounded - stabbed to the heart.

The year before he died I motored over to visit him at his beautiful home of retirement in Gilbertsville, New York. By this time I had come to regard him as a kind of spiritual father. He was all that I wanted my father to be, and all that my father was not. He knew it very well - and when we met, we kissed each other on the cheek, in the old German fashion.

I could see that he was weary, but his mind was as formidable as ever - alert and open to new ideas. We talked of many things - perhaps the only ones worth recording are that he thought Thomas Mann's *The Magic Mountain* a great literary achievement, and he thought Steven Benet's *John Brown's Body* a very moving and important work. Franke smiled as he let his mind dwell on things he delighted in. He asked me about my work. I told him briefly... and that his lectures on Goethe had changed the whole course of my life. I thought him.

He looked at me tenderly. His own son had died, tragically a few years ago. For the instant, I was his son. I was, indeed.

Then the intense moment of communication passed.

He turned to other matters. "I hope you will not touch a match to me," he laughed. "I might explode." He held up a small bottle from which he had been eating pellets during our conversation. "Nitro-glycerine!" he said amiably. Then I knew. Angina pectoris.

He led me to his study and showed me his plan for future work. But he added: "My life is over. I know it."

I cannot now remember what I said to him - but I hope that I was able to express some small particle of my love. I saw that he was tired; so I went away.

He died shortly thereafter. Mrs. Franke, to whom I wrote asking for some small token ... sent me a cheap onyx paper-weight that stands here on the desk before me. She wrote: "He had almost no possessions." Franke had nothing that was not yours and mine, if we could accept it. It was his delight to give his treasure to the meanest beggar. I judged that it was Mrs. Franke's care and tenderness and adequate resources that had enabled him to preserve his detachment from the hideous world which he so deeply longed to change. Money was not current coin in the region where he lived. ... Oh my dear Franke, how I miss you!

Space

139

Lafcadio Hearn

Out of the East

Not a few of us can feel that Western Faith must finally pass away forever leaving us to our own resources when our mental manhood shall have been attained, even as the fondest mothers must leave her children at East. In that far xxxxx day her work will have been done; she will have fully developed our recognition of certain eternal spiritual laws; she will have fully ripened our profounder human sympathies; she will have fully prepared us by her parables and fairy tales, by her gentle falsehoods, for the terrible truth of existence; - prepared us for the knowledge that there is no divine love save the love of man for man; that we have no All-Father, no Savior, no guardian angels; that we have no possible refuge but in ourselves.

Plato

Words of Socrates

Jowett

The fear of death is indeed the pretence of wisdom, being a pretence of knowing the unknown.

The unexamined life is not worth knowing.

I deem that the votary of philosophy is likely to be misunderstood by other men; they do not perceive that he is always pursuing death and dying ... Enemies of the body, they are wanting to be alone with the soul.

Dream

A dream of unusual impressiveness remains in my mind. - A snowy road among the hills near the Wayside Inn; two silent boys walk there; somehow as I pass them there suddenly strikes through me a nameless drezzd and awful confusion of terror, - perhaps as I realize the tremendous unseen presences and powers that circle the lads. Then, in a kind of inspired passion, I compose a poem which is an invocation to the dark and fearful forces or beings which are struggling to emerge from chaos. No other lines ever written had such weird significance as those I wrote: the tortured emergence of a melody through discordant strains, - the statues of Michael Angelo breaking from the stone, - was in them. Alas! that posterity and I can inherit from that poem only one line; which daylight somehow pales! -

..." and thou,
Demogorgon itself, horrible" ...

Leonardo da Vinci

When fortune comes, seize her in a firm hand, - in front, I counsel you, for behind she is bald.

Literature and Life: Either one needs only to become a little crowded to shut out the other.

Keats and Blake and many another lived in worlds that were not real. Does it profit a man to create a fictitious escape from a universe where, like it or not, he must deal with fact?

810

The other picture, of the dancers, is very good. too. I am enormously
grateful for both of them.

I think I will copy out for you one of my Don Quixote sonnets, in
the hope of tempting you to get hold of the book.

Dearest of all the heroes! peerless knight,
Whose follies sprang from such a generous blood!
Young, young must be the heart that in thy fight
Beholds no trace of its own servitude.
Young, or else darkened, is the eye that sees
No image of its own fate in thy quest.
The windmills and the swine - by such as these
Is shaped the doom of all we love the best.
Beloved knight! La Mancha's windows gleam,
Across the plain time makes so chill and grey,
With thy light only. Still thy flambeaux stream
In pomp of one who on his destined day
Put up his spear, his knightly pennon furled,
And died of the unworthiness of the world.

(You are not going to forget that last line, my boy; not to your dying day!)

Gladys was so glad to have the picture of you which Marion sent;
it was a great reassurance to have ocular proof that you take a bath
every year.

I cannot get my mind off the strangeness of your having unwittingly
illustrated my poem! It says in one place -

...For we have seen the very sunlight wane,
And watched our world go down in blood and tears,
Towers of our spirit crumbled in their pride
When century-carved cathedrals fell in flame.
A hope of ours died where each soldier died;
And we endured all of each nations shame--
Shame for the race of which we were a part
That held such treachery in its secret heart.

And yet-- so the poems continues - we must have a leader, a hero.
Who shall it be?

...Who-- save the ancient, tattered, unhorsed knight--
The renounèd windmill-warrior, sore and spent--
That luckless champion who in every fight
Proved his cause lost beyond all argument.
Yes! deck the lean horse! Bring the rusty lance!--
And let Don Quixote ride forth toward romance!

See how he rides, that Ⓟ key Ⓟ K battered ancient shade--
(Our hero, or else hero have we none--)
Don Quixote, vanquished, and by fate betrayed,
The sorriest scarecrow underneath the sun.
See how he rides! Indomitable still
With Roland's horn still echoing in his breast...

Well, Eric, I am just crazy about your picture. It has everything. Some