which Cendrars has employed. The author has succeeded in suggesting at least as much as he actually tells. Certain chapters, as for example the one describing the port of New York in 1834, have all the diversity of movement which animates a great movie film. With "L'Or" Blaise Cendrars ceases to be the migratory poet whose work was known only to a small number of cosmopolitan dilettantes and becomes a novelist who must be taken into account when one surveys the field of modern French fiction.

Anyone who follows literary events in France cannot fail to have noticed the increasing interest displayed by publishers and the general public in what is being read abroad: prominent critics and novelists like Valéry Larbaud, André Maurois, Philippe Soupault, Benjamin Crémieux, Léon Bazalgette, Charles Du Bos, and Jean Cassou, to mention only a few, are devoting time and energy to the task of familiarizing their compatriots with the most interesting works that are being published abroad. They are hyphens in the best sense of the word, traits d'union linking together readers and authors everywhere.

The series of lectures held during May and June at the Collège de France and the Théâtre du Vieux Colombier under the auspices of Robert Aaron and the Union Internationale des Etudiants is further evidence of the wide interest in contemporary international literature. American books and authors were described by Bernard Fay. Monsieur Fay has the reputation in his own country of being something of an iconoclast, and if he treats American idols with the same lack of respect he displayed toward generally accepted values in French

literature, he is likely to be severely called to task by more academically minded critics. On the other hand, Monsieur Fay recently published in "Le Correspondent" an extraordinarily sane and broadminded article on the vexed question of the Franco-American debt situation. In it he displayed a thorough grasp of the psychology of the two countries. What a pity it was not reprinted and sent to every fire eating Congressman and editorial

writer in the two countries!

Another international literary event to be recorded is the annual congress of the P. E. N. Clubs, held in Paris at the end of May. A number of distinguished men of letters from all over Europe attended the congress. John Galsworthy, president of the English P. E. N. Club, who is also the founder of the entire association, presided, and many topics of interest and importance to authors generally were usefully discussed. Among the entertainments organized was a banquet at which the foreign delegates were greeted by Georges Duhamel and Valéry Larbaud, a visit to Balzac's house in the rue Raynouard, and a special performance at the Atelier Theatre.

*

It is not often that one is able to chronicle the literary activities of royalty. I learn that the Queen of Roumania is now contemplating writing her reminiscences. She has just finished her new novel, which she is calling "Ilderim: A Tale of Light and Shade". Her Majesty will be remembered as the author of "The Voice of the Mountain", a novel published recently by Knopf. She has also written a book about Roumania, called "The Country That I Love", which has been illustrated by her daughter, Elizabeth, Queen of Greece. Another

book, "Roumanian Fairy Stories", is to be published in England this year.

The celebrated anecdote about the Shah of Persia and Omar Khayyam is worth recalling in connection with modern Spanish literature. It will be remembered that, when approached by the band of enthusiastic devotees who desired to visit the grave of Omar, the Shah observed: "But why do you wish to visit the grave of Omar Khayyam? He is one of our minor poets; we have many greater than he." We know, of course, that Omar's Western reputation rests on Fitzgerald's inspired translation, but an interesting parallel may be said to exist in contemporary Spanish fiction.

With no intention of disparaging the virile novels of Vicente Blasco Ibáñez, one may point to two Spanish authors of far greater distinction in their own country. "Azorin", the critic and essayist, now a member of the Royal Spanish Academy, and Pío Baroja, author of the "Memoirs of a Man of Action", are perhaps the most considerable of living Spanish authors. Blasco Ibáñez, of course, is eminently translatable and his outlook is cosmopolitan; hence his international popularity. Azorin, on the other hand, is so characteristically Spanish, so exquisitely difficult to render into another language, that he will probably remain little known outside his own country.

Baroja is already known in America through the translation of his trilogy, "The Quest", "Weeds", and "Red Dawn". Azorin is primarily an essayist; Baroja a novelist. Baroja's "Memorias de un Hombre de Acción: Las Figuras de Cera" (Madrid: Caro Raggio) is a fictional presentation of the life and times of his great uncle, Eugenio de Aviraneta. The Peninsular War, the French invasion, the Carlist wars these were exciting times for Spain of the early nineteenth century and provide abundant material for the modern novelist. Baroja is a kind of historical idealist, although he has no illusions about the Carlists and their methods. This series of memoirs, of which Aviraneta is the central figure, represents modern Spanish literature at its best, and the volume now issued, "Las Figuras de Cera", is one of the best that have appeared.

Spain does not produce many autobiographies, and the "Memorias del Conde de Benalua, Duque de San Pedro de Galatino" (Madrid: Blass) is the more welcome on that account. One of the old Castilian nobility, the Duke of San Pedro de Galatino describes graphically in these pages the Revolution of 1868, which broke out at Madrid, and his subsequent experiences in Paris, Vienna, and London. The result is a vivid picture and a story more exciting than many a romance of history or fiction.

MICHAEL JOSEPH

TUART PRATT SHERMAN again

STUAR

Don

maintained, the other evening, that his winter in New York had been a reasonably happy one. He and Mrs. Van Doren were leaving a party in order to put their magazine to bed, while Dr. Canby also vanished at an early hour to indulge in the same practice. There are some advantages in editing a monthly magazine. Marquis, also present at this particular séance, says that it is risky for a columnist to get far away from home. You have a feeling that your column, written under the Arc de Triomphe and put into the mails, is set adrift on a most uncertain sea. The academic profession, having lost a member to editing in Dr. Sherman, has gained one in Glenn Frank who is to become president of Wisconsin University. So far, I have not heard who is to edit "The Century", carrying on that lofty tradition. With magazines being born and dying by the minute, the news comes from Kendall Banning that the New Fiction Publishing Company will launch in August a monthly magazine, "Wit of the World". At the same time, "Live Stories" will make its first appearance as a quarterly reprint of stories selected from the magazines of the company. "The Golden Book", which combines new material with reprints of worthwhile articles and stories from various literatures, from all accounts seems to prosper mightily. And there are so many new beauty magazines of one sort or another that it almost makes a staid New Englander blush to look at a newsstand. Percy Waxman, who writes cheery lyrics and acts in Dutch Treat Club shows, has

risen in the ranks of editorial advisers to Arthur Vance of "Pictorial Review". At a certain hotel on Forty Ninth Street, the other noon, I felt as though I had suddenly fallen among publishers. At one table was Alfred Harcourt, flanked by editors of the above mentioned magazine; and Carl Sandburg, looking exactly the same as ever, and feeling guilty, I hope, because he so seldom enters this office. His Life of Lincoln is, I suppose, by this time nearly completed. The rest of the dining room was filled with denizens of Scribner's. Arthur Scribner spoke enthusiastically of the work of young Americans, and told me a few genial stories about F. Scott Fitzgerald, of whom he is justly proud. News of the Booksellers' Convention filters in. Apparently an excellent time was had by all and why not? It was in Chicago, and, although that city may be passing as a literary centre, Marcella Burns Hahner is still there to charm the passing eye; and that's saying nothing of Will Solle, Harry Hansen, Lewellyn oh, you know the rest!

The Institute of Modern Literature held recently at Bowdoin College was apparently a huge success. Grand literary personages gathered for addresses and round table discussions. Here was Robert Frost, always one of the first in any gathering where education and literature combine; here also Henry Canby, Margaret Deland, Willa Cather, Hatcher Hughes, Laurence Stallings, Christopher Morley, and many others. Mr. Morley, by the way, recently took a trip from Maine or somewhere down to Long

Island in a yawl. Another splendid sea party was held the other afternoon for Jim Bone, or "Jum" as he is popularly called. His brother, Captain David W. Bone, was along, and took charge of the small ship with disastrous results. Jim Bone has for many years been editor of "The Manchester Guardian", and his column of London News is justly famous. A book of his about London is to appear here this autumn, with sketches illustrative of it by the other famous Bone brother, Muirhead. Mr. Morley's novel, recently completed, "Thunder on the Left", is to appear in "Harper's Magazine". He explains the title by a quotation from "The Dangers of This Mortal Life" by Sir Eustace Peachtree, one of Mr. Morley's favorite authors among the old English. Morley tells me that possibly he will bring out an edition of the works of that famous moralist and humorist. The quotation follows:

Further news of Mr. Morley includes the information that Jerome Kern is to produce his dramatization (C. M.'s) of "Where the Blue Begins", a Divine Comedy. Hulbert Footner, returning from London and Italy, seems to have spent a year of great delight among those people "who take the time to live". He tells me that he saw Cyril Hume and his wife in their Italian villa, shortly before Mrs. Hume's untimely death. Jane Alexander Hume was a charming girl, and a poet of great promise. She was a good friend to THE BOOKMAN, and her death is one of those tragedies of youth that are so difficult for friends to bear.

When all the world is starting off for Europe and other places of soul escape and repose, Burton E. Stevenson returns. Browned, ready to take up his work again, and vastly contented with the world, he says that he spent a quiet time in Monte Carlo, in a sandy spot of shore. That's not my idea of Monte Carlo; but it's evidently his. He seems much pleased with the looks of "The Home Book of Modern Verse" and he should be. It's a good anthology, as was the earlier volume. Mr. Stevenson is surely one of the most legitimate of anthologists. From Europe, also, comes E. V. Lucas, with his serious face and his voice with the laugh in it. This publisher, author, and art critic I met the other day for the first time, and found both entertaining and unassuming. He has come to America to visit our art galleries, among other things, and will write about them for "The Ladies' Home Journal". Another visitor to town was Ellen Glasgow, much pleased by the success of "Barren Ground". In the past, she has not visited New York with great enough frequency. This year she has been here twice, and New York is to be congratulated, for her keen mind, her gay laugh, and her real love of literature make her presence in this whirlwind of thises and thats of little or no consequence, almost a necessity. I should advocate sending a petition to Richmond to demand that Miss Glasgow be loaned frequently to New York. The literary renaissance of the south is becoming more and more evident. Its papers do not neglect to speak of it. The Texas journals are doubtless rejoicing over the fact that the Dallas Players have carried off for the second year in succession the Belasco Cup awarded the winners of New York's Little Theatre Tournament. Their offering was "The No

'Count Boy", a Negro character sketch by Paul Green. The sectional feeling of the country strikes me as a most happy thing. Meade Minnigerode

E. V. Lucas

must, I should think, have been upset, but nevertheless flattered, at the hue and cry in Tennessee over his article on Rachel Jackson in "The Saturday Evening Post". I wonder if any other part of the country would become quite so articulate about a hero or a heroine. The south has another literary newcomer in James Boyd, whose "Drums" is being highly praised and widely read. I am told by old Yale friends that Mr. Boyd is an excellent athlete, a good shot, and enjoys the life of a country gentleman with aplomb. This sounds promising for an American upon whom John Galsworthy has smiled; for Mr. Galsworthy himself is not unlike that. (By the way, the English novelist's short stories are to appear presently in one volume titled "Caravan".) Watch the south. Stung to the quick by Mr. Mencken, it is giving us a wealth of good writing.

The BOOKMAN Prize for Club Papers has been awarded unanimously by the judges to Merida Wilde of Peoria, Illinois, for her paper on etiquette,

"Can It Be Taught?" The first prize of two hundred dollars goes to her, also the one hundred dollar prize for the best essay on an educational subject. The prize for the best paper on a literary subject goes to Mary Ellis Opdycke, of New York City, for her essay "On Translation". The papers submitted under the other classifications were, neither in number nor quality, sufficient to justify their submission to the judges. Miss Wilde's paper will be published in the August Book

MAN.

Going to the theatre with a married author adventuring in New York City, I was touched by a remark he made. The leading lady appeared in a modish little brown hat. "Gosh, that's a smart hat!" he remarked. "Wish I knew where to get one to square myself with the wife." I then remembered the prettiest hat I've seen this season. It was on the head of no less beautiful a person than the pleasant Dorothy Parker, maker of plays and verses and dramatic criticism. It was large and low and green pale green, and along the side was a sheaf of pussy willows. There's a hat to square yourself with, sir. No less was that worn on the same occasion by Elinor Wylie, only it must have been less, because I can't remember what it was like, exactly. Dorothy Parker, by the way, is at work on a play and is about to write a novel. Mrs. Wylie has started a new novel, to follow her exquisite "Venetian Glass Nephew". I find a note in my basket telling of another poet's success. It seems that "Ulysses Returns and Other Poems" by Roselle Mercier Montgomery actually appeared among the five best selling non-fiction books not long ago. Mrs. Montgomery is apparently fast entering the Eddie Guest class.