Vivid and Repulsive as the Truth: The Early Works of Djuna Barnes
Vivid and Repulsive as the Truth: The Early Works of Djuna Barnes
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Overview
A longtime resident of Greenwich Village, Barnes drew inspiration from the bustling streets of Lower Manhattan, and this eclectic compilation of her early journalism, fiction, and poetry recaptures the vitality of her bohemian literary scene. The collection opens with articles ranging from an account of an evening at the Arcadia, a "modern dance hall," to a firsthand report of the force-feeding endured by suffragettes in 1914. In addition to profiles of a postman, vaudeville performer, and other local personalities, Barnes interviews Lillian Russell and Alfred Stieglitz and describes an encounter with James Joyce. A dozen short stories follow, and the book concludes with a selection of compelling and sensual poetry, including verse from The Book of Repulsive Women. A selection of the author's original illustrations is included.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780486815220 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Dover Publications |
| Publication date: | 07/20/2016 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| File size: | 2 MB |
About the Author
New York City-based writer Katharine Maller has edited several Dover titles, including The Dover Anthology of Cat Stories.
Read an Excerpt
Vivid and Repulsive as the Truth
The Early Works of Djuna Barnes
By Djuna Barnes, Katharine Maller
Dover Publications, Inc.
Copyright © 2016 Dover Publications, Inc.All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-486-81522-0
CHAPTER 1
YOU CAN TANGO — A LITTLE — AT ARCADIA DANCE HALL
Reginald Delancey — which really isn't his name at all but will do as well as any other to tack onto and distinguish this young man — lolled in a soft armchair in the window of his club on Clinton Street and scanned the evening papers. He was bored. The tips of his immaculate tan shoes shone brightly as ever; the creases in his trousers were like the prow of the Imperator in their incisive sharpness; but his mind was as dull as a tarnished teapot. His fashionable friends had all fled town after the international polo matches, and he was left alone to sun and solitude.
Reginald yawned and glanced carelessly at a newspaper beside his chair. "A Night in Arcadia" read the black headlines glaring at him from the floor. Arcadia? He thought a moment. He remembered now: it was all about Evangeline and broken hearts and — Longfellow, of course. Then he picked up the paper; but what he read had nothing at all to do with misfortune and shattered home. It told of the recent opening and subsequent success of a new Arcadia, a modern dance hall built under the auspices of the Social Centers Corporation — a body of men and women banded together for the absolute elimination of the old-style dance hall with its flickering gaslights and furtive faces. The Arcadia is at the corner of Saratoga Avenue and Halsey Street, and on Wednesday, Thursday, Saturday, and Sunday evenings one may dance to one's feets' content. It is all quite — but hearken unto what Reggie did, and then do thou likewise.
First of all, he cut out the article about the Arcadia. Then he went home and had dinner. He was not quite certain how he ought to dress for such a place, but he finally selected a quiet, Balkan cravat and a harmless-looking suit and, armed only with a silver-handled stick, sallied forth. When he got off the Halsey Street car at the Arcadia, he was agreeably surprised. There were arc lights and electrics and even a respectable automobile chugging with satisfaction before the door. Reginald paid twenty-five cents and trotted inside. He checked his hat and stick and sat down on a comfortable chair.
"My word," he said to himself, "Longfellow's Arcadia couldn't touch this."
Which was very true, at least as far as the dancing goes. The new hall, a fireproof structure 150 x 200 feet, has a dancing space of 89 x 100 feet and a promenade twenty-five feet wide. It is a one-story building, splendidly lighted, with a seating capacity of 4,500, and it is everything that a dance hall should in every way be.
When Reggie arrived, it was about 8:29, and Bill Doxie was waxing the floor, which already shone like a mirror in sunlight. Reginald, however, was not certain of just what was in store for him, so he asked Sydney S. Cohen, a pleasant man with a welcoming sort of smile, who is secretary and treasurer of the Social Centers Corporation.
"I say, Mr. Cohen," said Reginald, "what about these dances — the turkey, the tango, and all the rest?"
"The turkey trot is absolutely taboo, along with the bunny hug," said Mr. Cohen. "But the tango may be danced in modified form; in fact, we will have a demonstration of it tonight by professional dancers. We are endeavoring to elevate the tone of dancing and to place the dance-hall business on a clean and wholesome basis. We want particularly to attract the girls from the dance halls where liquor is sold, evil acquaintances are met, and bad habits are formed. We have already opened a hall in Newark which has received the commendation of the civic authorities, and we also run one in Philadelphia. During the winter we will run dances here four nights a week and rent the hall the other three nights."
Mr. Cohen then gave Reginald a pink pamphlet containing a list of the rules for correct dancing and announcing a list of specialties, to include a "Snookey Ookum" party, a Coney Island night, a robbers two-step, and other marvelous accompaniments of a night of dance and song.
Suddenly the orchestra of eight pieces struck up a lively tune, and immediately hundreds of gaily dressed girls and happy-looking men glided onto the floor and were two-stepping with vigor and vim. But there wasn't even so much as a wiggle of the shoulders to suggest the turkey trot. Reginald found that the sight of so many swaying bodies was infectious. He looked about for an "introducer" but found none. He was just beginning to think he would have a poor time of it after all when way off in a corner he spotted Thomas Murphy, his father's office boy. Social barriers flew out of the window. Reggie almost embraced Tom, who was quite overcome by the unexpected and, in fact, quite unbelievable appearance of his employer's son.
"Don't ask any questions," said Reggie quickly. "Introduce me — that's all."
Tom grabbed him by the arm, and the two shied into a corner.
"What's your style, eh?" asked Tom.
"Anything at all, so long as she can dance. I'm not at all particular."
As a matter of fact, Reginald was very particular — that is, with girls of his own set — but now it seemed that the one great desire of his life was to get on that floor and dance. "I know just the one," said Tom. "She sells perfume and such stuff at the Paris department store on Broadway." And before Reginald knew it, he was introduced and found himself dancing away across the floor. It was a waltz, and Reggie did know how to waltz; also, although he kept it dark under his shock of bushy red hair, he knew how to turkey trot and tango and all the rest. But Phil Post, censor, stood right in the middle of the floor. He wore a red carnation over a white vest, and although he seemed almost asleep with a sort of beatific look of delight, his keen eyes kept tabs on every couple. But there was little need. It was an awfully good crowd, Reggie thought, and the dancing was far more polite and graceful than that done on the previous evening at a fashionable society dance by girls of Reggie's own sort.
When the music stopped, Reggie took the girl, whose name was Delia O'Connor, to the soda fountain, where all sorts of wonderful mixed sundaes and frappés were served by white-coated attendants. Although it was probable they would never meet again, they sat and soda'd together.
"Where do you work?" asked Delia confidingly.
"I — I — that is —," and Reggie swallowed a huge piece of ice cream.
"I work at the Paris," said Delia, with the air of imparting a secret. "Perfume's my line. It's something fine, too. You smell the bottles day after day, and by and by you begin to think of beautiful flowers and shady paths and goldfish. And then, lately, I have been coming here at night. Before the Arcadia opened, we used to go to the hot and stuffy movie shows. But this has that beaten to a thirty-nine-cent bargain sale on a rainy Monday." She carefully stuck out one dainty foot and stretched a bit.
Reggie laughed.
"You're really dancing now," he said. "You know, the word dance comes from an old High German word, danson which means 'to stretch,' so that what you are doing now is really a sort of dance."
"Quit throwing them cashmere bouquets," said Delia, "and let's get to that two-step."
Reggie paid ten cents for the drinks and sailed forth on the waxen sea with Delia, as lightly and trippingly as two smart yachts tacking against the wind.
And so the evening wore on. Everyone had a glorious time. The Arcadia was light and cool, the music was good, and best of all, the authorities were not too critical. One might even tango a little in a tame sort of way. The whole place was pervaded with an air of refinement and good behavior (and the men who are running it intend to keep it so). At last midnight came, the lights were lowered, and the dancers departed.
"Say, Mabel," said Delia on the way home, "I met the real frangipani sort of guy tonight. Uses three-for-a-dollar words and told me all about some Dutch dance. Never once tried to get fresh, either."
"It's the Arcadia," said Mabel, knowingly. "Everyone behaves there like a kid dolled up for Anniversary Day before the ice cream is passed."
And Reginald, back in his club, resolved to go to the Paris department store on the morrow and buy a bottle of perfume, a thing he had always considered one of the seven deadly sins of manhood.
CHAPTER 2"TWINGELESS TWITCHELL" AND HIS TANTALIZING TWEEZERS
Shakespeare, whittler op epigrams, no doubt said something in some of his plays about teeth. If the truth were known beyond question, it would be found that an aching tooth in many cases has had far greater effect on the world's history than the rainfall on the eve of Waterloo (which, besides annihilating Napoleon's army, gave that dear Victor Hugo an excuse for several chapters of guerrilla philosophy in Les Miserables). This is a modern version of the Hugo tale.
A tooth! Its first appearance is hailed with frantic delight by the young mother and the assembled relatives; but how different its end! A book might well be written on the pathos of forgotten teeth. But after all, the purpose of this simple tale is to tell how not to suffer and not to disturb an otherwise quiet Sunday by bringing back memories of hours of dental inquisition.
But before we go any further, you must be told, just as you are always told at the beginning of every short story, that Reginald Delancey — whom you may remember meeting a few weeks ago at the Arcadia Dance Hall — was very much interested in a certain young woman whose name was Ikrima, as she was born in Turkey of a Mohammedan father who with all the wisdom inspired of a twenty- four-inch beard sent her to America to be educated. (The poor little perfumery girl with whom Reggie fell in love at the Arcadia had been abruptly deserted once Reginald discovered that she used a certain cologne, which he decided was a trifle too "racy.")
On Wednesday evening Reginald and Ikrima were strolling languidly down a street on the Heights.
"How slow the city is in summer," said Ikrima in that pretty, poutish way which always appeals to the biggest sort of men.
"Do I understand that you are seeking excitement?" asked Reginald, who always spoke in complete sentences as the result of four years at Harvard. "If I am correct in divining your intent, let us proceed at once to the next street crossing, where a somewhat large assemblage of persons leads me to believe that the unusual is either happening or about to happen."
So Reggie and Ikrima walked with stately tread to the corner.
A good-natured-looking man clad in white flannels was standing on a platform built upon the back of an ordinary touring-type automobile. At his side was a white enamel dentist chair, with all the necessary appurtenances; close by stood a table with medicine bottles and instruments that shone wickedly in the light of a flickering acetylene torch that sputtered vain protests at the darkness.
"My name is Twingeless Twitchell," the little man was saying with mighty dignity. "My business is pulling teeth, and I am frank to confess I am in it for the money I can make. There are two hundred thousand paid persons in this country to tell you how to take care of your souls, but as far as I know, I am the only man who tells you how to take care of your teeth. Yet there is as much brimstone contained in an aching tooth as there is in all the hereafter put together."
Groans rise from the crowd as each one remembers a sleepless night and a swollen face. But "Twingeless Twitchell" gives them no time to think. He holds them with his glittering instruments.
"No doubt you are wondering," he thunders forth, with a splendid gesture of deprecation, "just why I stand here upon this platform tonight discussing teeth. Well, I'll tell you."
He leans forward with the air of him who is about to tell the secret of the Sphinx.
"I'm here to collar the dollars," says Twingeless Twitchell. "I don't like the tooth-carpentering business." (Shudders run through the crowd at the expression.) "I don't believe in art for art's sake, not I. I'm the man that put the dent in dentist and the e's in teeth. And now I'm here to prove it. I invite anyone in this vast audience to step upon the platform and have a tooth extracted without knowing it. I know how to do it, believe me. I started to study teeth at the age of ten, and I've been at it ever since."
And Twingeless Twitchell, with a modest bow, stepped back and awaited all comers. A thrill of anticipation ran through the crowd. People in the el trains twenty feet above leaned out of the windows, entranced at the sight. A taxi went chugging by and then suddenly stopped, and a fat man alighted and joined the throng. Up above on a balcony of a beer garden, a lugubrious-looking German pointed out the enthralling sight to his stolid companion. A chic French maid came tumbling forth from a nearby millinery shop, chattering volubly in her native tongue.
"It is the spirit of the arena," said Reginald learnedly. "They all want to see a human being suffer."
"Do you really think it's twingeless?" asked Ikrima, with a memory of a tooth she left in Constantinople when a little girl.
Then, on a sudden, a hush fell over the crowd. A man, collarless, red of beard and bald of hair, mounted the steps to the platform with his eyes fixed on the glaring lights, like a rabbit that has been charmed by the bead in the python's eye.
Twingeless Twitchell placed him gently in the chair and raised the torches a little higher. The unknown folded his hands resignedly over his stomach. Then the dentist took a formidable hypodermic in his hand.
"You see, ladies and gentlemen," he explained glibly, "I take this glittering instrument, filled with my specially prepared anesthetic, and do thus," and he injected a quantity into the unknown's gum. Then he grabbed the tweezers, and with all the finesse of a skilled surgeon performing for an academy of the world's best physicians, he eliminated the aching tooth.
The unknown arose with a dazed look in his eyes. Twingeless Twitchell handed him a card with his name and address printed thereon.
"Good evening," said Twitchell, escorting his first victim to the stairway. "Next!"
But Reginald and Ikrima waited to see no more. With hurried steps they left the crowd, wondering if they had actually witnessed a painless extraction.
"I say," said Reginald, after a little, "that's — that's not a bit nice. Just like washing one's linen in public and all that sort of thing."
"That may be true," said Ikrima, "but after all it reminds one that they ought to watch out and never let such a thing be necessary. I could never marry a man who didn't have a perfect set of teeth."
The following evening, Ikrima telephoned to Reginald. The butler answered the call.
"I want to speak to Mr. Delancey," said Ikrima.
"He's not at home," said the butler.
"Where did he go?"
"To the dentist," answered the butler, who was no diplomat.
But Ikrima, with very rosy cheeks, kissed the telephone mouthpiece at the other end.
CHAPTER 3VETERANS IN HARNESS, NO. 1: POSTMAN JOSEPH H. DOWLING, FORTY-TWO YEARS IN SERVICE
Scene: The post office on the corner of Washington and Johnson Streets. The lights are low and burn a steady blue. In the dun, the forms of moving mail carriers talking in low tones together among the great bulk of the mail-bags. Upon tall stools the clerks nod over the ink bottles and the stamps, the grated window throwing patterns on the wall, the gentle murmur of a great city putting on its nightcap outside.
Enter Joseph H. Dowling, the oldest mail carrier in service, seventy- seven in April; short and gray, his official cap pulled over his head, the empty mail pouch over his shoulder. He looks around and slowly sits down, taking his cap into his hands, the mailbag — wherein an hour before a world lay undistributed — slipping down. He speaks.
"Forty-two years in service and never a sweetheart in all the blocks I've walked. Married fifty-four years, twelve years ahead of the mails," he laughs. "It spoiled a good deal of the romance of the road, but thank the mercies that she's been spared to me along with the children — the children, and the oldest is fifty-three.
"And the changes that I've seen," he goes on. "Why, I helped build the Brooklyn Bridge. I stood under the bed of the East River and bossed men — foreman with human lives under me — and Lord, how the city grew when she started. I'd go down it seemed between tea and dinner, and when I came up they had built a block."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Vivid and Repulsive as the Truth by Djuna Barnes, Katharine Maller. Copyright © 2016 Dover Publications, Inc.. Excerpted by permission of Dover Publications, Inc..
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Table of Contents
Contents
Introduction, v,A Note on the Sources, ix,
Articles and Interviews, 1,
Fiction, 123,
Poetry, 211,