April 9, 1927 Price 15 Cents .¦ ¦ ' : I •' .:¦ 1 ¦¦'''.. mmimmmmm&mmmMmmmmm ¦ ¦ ¦¦¦ ;¦¦.¦.¦.:: . ¦¦.¦¦¦¦¦ .;. ¦:, .¦¦ ¦ ?XXmS$i; ¦¦.¦¦¦:.... :¦::." ¦../. 'The CI4ICAG0AN NOW BEING PUBLISHED BY MARTIN J. QUIGLEY Publisher Exhibitors Herald, Better Theatres, The Studio The Box Office Record and Equipment Index 407 So. Dearborn St. Ckica&o NEW YORK LOS ANGELES LONDON 565 Fifth Ave. 5617 Hollywood Blvd. 8-10 Charing Cross Road E. C. 2 Tic » ( 'nn ai. man Makiis J. <Ji I'.nv. I'i'hiimiih; imlilishnl fort n i«h 1 1 v !>v OaW.lale l'uMislntifj Co., 407 South Dearborn St., Chicago, 111. New V..ik OH,..- - liftli A vr I.ms AiutI.-s Otl»r: M.17 llnllywi.fi.! IHv-1 ' Mil,-, rij.lif -n >v"> :iiimi;illy. mtiKU- mines 15c. Vol. Ill, No. 2— April •>, P>.'7. Kniry ..s sec. .n.l class matter applied f.>r at I'.st OlVicc at Oucum, 111., under Act of March 3, 1879. TWEO4ICAG0AN 5?' tFty=&- ¦G2&5S>t s5«T/^^ Ik SPRING CALLS FOR THE ULTRA SMART Discriminating women find all the artistry of-" distinctive mode in each garment now on display at Mc AVOY 615 NORTH MICHIGAN AVENUE TELEPHONE SUPERIOR 87 20 GOWNS -WRAPS -SUITS - MILLINERY - ACCESSORIES- PfcfS^sJ- -fc£S=S<5 TMECWICAGOAN 3 • CALENDAK OP EVENT/ THE THEATRE SUNNY — at the Illinois. Marilyn Miller, Frank Doane and Clifton Webb. Bidding with Uncle Tom's Cabin for long runs. NEW YORK EXCHANGE— at the Olympic. Modern version of lavender and old lace. LUCKY SAMBO— at the La Salle. Black and tan. THE DONOVAN AFFAIR— at the Selwyn. Mystery. "Let us now turn out the lights and we shall see if the ring glows in the dark." Woof ! WHAT EVERY WOMAN KNOWS— at the 4 Cohans. Helen Hayes and Kenneth McKenna doing honors to Mr. Barrie. A NIGHT IN PARIS— at the Apollo. The title tells all. But don't take your Paris too seriously. It is rumored that the show is to be replaced by Al Jolson's Big Boy. Jolson going in for revivals? SHANGHAI GESTURE— at the Adelphi. Florence Reed still demonstrating the rumor that Chinese never forget injuries. OH, PLEASE— at the Erianger. Beatrice Lillie, Charles Winninger, and Helen Broderick in a very light — and sometimes funny — musical show. 12 MILES OUT— at the Cort. Expressing rather defi nite and more or less popular views on prohibition. CRADLE SNATCHERS— at the Harris. Three ladies do a little research work — with the usual laboratory slant. THE NIGHT HAWK— at the Blackstone. See it if you insist, but don't blame us. THE GALLERIES ART INSTITUTE OF CHICAGO— Paintings from the Carnegie Institute International Show. Paintings by Walt Kuhn. Exhibit of New Mexico painters. Sculpture by Paul Manship. CHILDREN'S MUSEUM, ART INSTITUTE— Sil houettes by Baroness Maydell, Maude L. G. Oliver and Engert. CHESTER JOHNSON GALLERIES— Paintings by Salcia Bahnc. ARTS CLUB OF CHICAGO— Paintings by Albert Bloch. Water colors and drawings by Constantin Guys. NEWBERRY LIBRARY— Special exhibition of books from the Kelmscott Press. FIELD MUSEUM— Antique sculpture. MUSIC BLANCHE SLOCUM, contralto, Goodman Theatre, Sunday, April 10, at 3 :30. MORIZ ROSENTHAL, pianist, Studebaker Theatre, Sunday, April 10, at 3:30. GABRIEL FENYVES, piano recital, The Playhouse, Sunday, April 10, at 3 :30. GALLI CURCI, benefit concert, Medinah Temple, Cass and Ohio Streets, Sunday, April 17, at 3:30. BENNO MOISEIWITSCH, pianist, Studebaker Thea tre, Sunday, April 17, at 3:30. J. ROSAMOND JOHNSON AND TAYLOR GOR DON in a program of spirituals, Orchestra- Hall. Tuesday evening, April 19, at 8:15. THE SCREEN OLD IRONSIDES— at the Auditorium indefinitely. Best picture in months. Review in this issue. CASEY AT THE BAT— at the Roosevelt, indefinitely. Baseball comedy and funnier than the City Series. Reviewed this week. FREIBERG PASSION PLAY— at the Playhouse, in definitely. What you expect plus some things you don't. See review. CHILDREN OF DIVORCE— at McVicker's. Clara Bow and does the rest matter? Review inevitable. 4 TMtCWfCAGOAN ' Easter or no Easter — if / ever get my hands on that woman who's pushing me. TUECI4ICAG0AN TH-E TALK OF THE TOWN A story has come to us about one of our younger newspaper men, Mr. Lawerence Selz, head of the Kent Press Service. It is known by a few that Larry runs some three miles in his track suit in Jackson Park at an early hour each day. One morning, as he was round ing off the third mile of his workout in the park, he heard great laugh ter arise from the neighboring golf course. On one of the tees were two girls who were feeling very merry over the picture of a young man in a track suit in Jackson Park. They yelled at him gleefully that they hoped he'd win his numerals. Larry turned from his path, ran over to the tee where his audience was and confronted them, panting heavily. "Girls," he gasped, "girls, what- uh town is-uh this?" tame THIS story comes to us first hand. Out of the fog and the indefinite discussion of a very in formal evening, there kept running through the mind of a certain Chi cago poet, whose book is soon to ap pear in print, a persistent rhyme scheme and a series of phrases. Try as he would, they remained — the rhyme scheme and the phrases — until lUvl\l> i)h\u\i it became very clear to him that he was about to write some verse. He left the party abruptly. By the time he reached his rooms the poetry form was complete in his mind and he sat down and, within the meagre stretch of five minutes, wrote a Petrarchian sonnet. Now when one writes a sonnet, and the rule applies even to this young blade, he does not do so in five minutes — not a piece of work which could be shown to anyone with even a moiety of safety. But in six min utes the sonnet was on paper and the poet asleep — not, however, until he had told himself that, besides es tablishing a speed record in verse writing, he had just completed a very competent bit of composition. To make the point of the story clearer, it might be added that the young man slept until noon, at which time he awakened with a film over his eyes, his trousers under the pil low, and his shoes in the book case. High noon revealed the informa tion that he had written and sold the same sonnet five months before. Success AFTER reading a jolly literary jig of some obscure but loyal eastern journalist, an article which, so far as we could determine, was made up of association of commerce advertising copy for the big town, we have decided conclusively that, in referring to the lake city, it shall be our strict and holy aim to use as few superlatives as possible, to have our remarks about the city emanate from good sound judgment and a recognition of facts rather than from an uncontrolled and righteous civic pride. On the article referred to we shall make little comment; we shall di vulge only such information as we think everyone could endure know ing. The ditty had to do with a contrast of New York and Chicago, a charming little task in itself, in which was included one gasping, al most Russian, admission, one monu mental concession which will forever 6 TWECWICAGOAN "Well, maybe I am Ethel Barrymore" cause Gotham to wear a bleeding heart in its lapel. The young author, whose age has nothing to do with the adjective, con fessed, a bit blushingly it's true, that the lions in front of the Michigan Boulevard art institute were hand somer — think of it — handsomer than the animals that guard the entrance to the library or the zoo of his home town. The artist at fault, we trust for his own safety, is no more. WITH the memory of those ex clamations clinging to our lobes, we shall, certainly, make no attempt to prove that Chicago is the cleanest, the safest or the most moral spot on the new hemisphere; the newspapers wouldn't stand for it: nor, it may be said, shall we insist that it is the dirtiest, the most wicked, or the most uncultured city in the country ; all that we shall leave to the virgin opus of each budding eastern journalist. And as for us, we shall try to con tent ourselves with the knowledge that Chicago, even before the lions were praised, was tolerated for its indifference, for its quick manner of thumbing noses at the gibes of for eigners, and then, in a mood of con trition, of smiling forgivably. What if Chicago is, as our re viewers rejoice in insisting, a youth with uncombed hair. Let his hair be uncombed. Let the wind blow through it. Or even if he had a bit of loam in his pocket. It's good, clean glacial deposit. And should there be a little murder occasionally, a spit of excitement on the west side, well— Homicide MURDER as a fine art, as a deli cately conceived and adeptly executed business, has long been a deserving subject of belles lettres. Unfortunately, most writers have approached the matter of manslaugh ter in a critical spirit ; they have dealt with the media, the technique, the dramatic unities of the subject. That is to say, instead of regarding murder as a natural way of obtaining a laud able end, they have dealt with it as an art for art's sake, as an end in itself. A deplorable state of affairs. No wonder we lack, so to speak, a vitality about our murders. The newspapers are partly to blame ; they show only results, never motives. A cross to indicate where the body was found and a series of unflattering de tail about the viciousness of the pro tagonist. The noble American folk- way of homicide has lost its old-time zest. The mechanics of killing have absorbed the whole philosophy of killing. This is decadence; it is un- American; and, finally, if only as a scholastic quibble, it is immoral. Chicago's reputation for "losing" people has become international, thanks to the newspapers. We recall a certain incident when a London business man appeared at the desk of the Blackstone Hotel and in all seriousness asked the clerk if he thought it safe to walk down Michi gan Boulevard. It was then four o'clock in the afternoon. The clerk assured him heartily that there could be no question about his safety. Nevertheless, the visitor took a cab. SO, you see, we have a reputation. And if we must have murders, let them proceed from a sound philo sophical basis, let them partake a consummate simplicity which is great art. They should be American in the older American tradition, the tradition of Aaron Burr, Billy the Kid, Andrew Jackson, and the im mortal Jesse James, in whom there TMECI4ICAG0AN 7 was no decadence, but who acted upon sound deduction with classical reasons in mind. Good clean Amer ican homicide, without the influence of Egypt, Russia or the Latins. Bearing all this in mind, and re membering that homicide, like pros ody, must be treated in a philological manner, let us make sure that from now on all murders in Chicago will emanate from motives other than spite, that they will carry at least a sliver of sportsmanship about them, and certainly they must take an origi nal trend. They should have nothing to do with beer-alcohol quibbles, floral shops, the corner of State and Superior, jealous lovers, or sexual abnormalities and above everything else let's give the forest preserves a rest. AND while we are on the subject of Volstead virginity, we might remark about a recent occurrence when one of the city's most cele brated vendors of joy bottles became entangled in a nest of apparently well-salaried federal sniffers. Cus tomers calling for delivery were in formed by a weeping woman that the husband was behind vulgar bars. A young broker, appearing at the address for the first time, was del uged with the tears of the bootleg ger's wife. He consoled her, offered to do what he could, assured her that, in all probability, the sentence would not be a long one, or, even better, that the offender, her hus band, would probably be dismissed with a fine. He left her in the doorway weep ing — this poor woman who was so broken up about her husband's mis- "How would you like to have a face like that, Marge? fortune that she scarcely could speak. There she was, the heart bowed down, weeping in her apron. The broker, feeling that there was noth ing further to be done, tiptoed away. He got as far as the gate before she realized he had left. Shrilly and eagerly her words came after him, "Don't forget to leave your tele phone number, mister." NOW that, through Elmer Gantry, Mr. Sinclair Lewis is again in the ring, now that his publicity stunts are in full bloom and he seems threateningly near an impulse to skip down the street to play jacks under the gas light with Fatty, Amie and Peaches, we cannot help recalling the incident when, like the long- forgotten Robert Ingersoll, the gen tleman from Minnesota defied God, before a crowd of people, to strike him dead. Many good citizens are still amazed that Sinclair was not turned into a cinder or a South African gnu. All of which calls to mind the thought of the newspaper editor who remarked on the subject that if God did not see fit to strike Mr. Lewis dead, stone dead with no heart beating, he certainly accom plished an equally devastating result with the author's literary endeavors. Six of One IT shall be our sincere intention to straddle the fence, to make no at tempt to justify the attitude of the 8 TUECUICAGOAN ''Chi ic, very chic. ? fifty-one Yellow Cab drivers who, feeling that the American Legion will deculturize Paris during its sum mer convention, have banded to gether for the purpose of arriving one month early at the French capi- tol, where they will have a picnic of their own. Nor shall we defend them. Although the list of grievances tacked to the shoulders of Y. C. drivers is long and varied, we feel that it is safe to conclude that com paratively few of them have ever been accused of being a dilettante. And yet if one takes seriously the advertising copy of that concern, in which is inferred that their drivers are reared from tender childhood, it is possible for him to imagine scores of leather-leggined nurses rocking the cradles of the future and pam pered cab drivers of the city. And still, that is not enough. After all, we know a cabby when we see him, and we realize that a person is not to take too literally any advertis ing copy. Our impression of cab drivers is that if they are pampered and fretted, in itself a human and forgivable fault, such uneasiness must be completly dissociated from the arts. YET, the picture we paint of Paris during the American in vasion this summer has little to do with the brush work of Cezanne, the phrases of Louis Aragon, or the music of Cezar Franck. Whether or not the cab driver is justified in denying himself to the rest of the convention is yet to be decided. Possibly the Paris news papers will make some definite state ments regarding the advisability of either enterprise. Members of the Academy might even break out in print on the mat ter, going into profound detail on the cultural disposition of the rep resentative American. The return of the conqueror to the land of his exploits has ever been a favorite road of the novelist. We predict a flood of material from the pens of our French contemporaries. There is, we feel sure, a bromide covering the situation of choosing between the two — a bromide which we shall not, at this time, recall. For, as stated before, we have decided to straddle the fence, merely to state facts, no more. For, at best, a con vention is a convention, whether it is held in Paris or Grant Park. TUECUICAGOAN 9 THE other night, high up in the projection room of one of the new film palaces, we saw a private showing of Siegfried, the great German motion picture. The whir and clack of the projector was the only music — no accompanying masses of Wagnerian tone — but the film was none the less magical, especially the first three reels. It is reported that the public will have an opportunity to see the film sometime during the summer. It will, we trust, appear in the original form, before the clipping bureau lays its gentle mark. Birds LIKE every normally constituted city biped we have hung per ilously over a hole in the earth to watch strong men slosh through a job of caisson digging. At the law's chiding bellows we have moved tamely aside, wishing in our anemic hearts that we were slow and potent as the lads below, the better to toss a blue uniform casu ally down the nearest caisson well. Yesterday we heard two of the construction boys talking at lunch time. "Me," said Joe, "I like these new fights. Just the other night I saw one of the prettiest ten-round scraps a man could glim any where." "No he-man stuff for me, Joe," rumbled the partner. "What I like is to take the wife and kids over to Lincoln Park. They look at the tigers and things and I hike out to watch the birds. Yes sir, there's nothing in the world prettier than that big cage full of birds." No Jury OCCASIONALLY we try a little intellectual sniping at the art institute. Now and then a careful and conscienceless listener can bag an astounding piece of fair game. Intellectual sniping, we might 'add, is simply listening with a superior air to the words of honest souls remarking on the as sembled art as their various natures impel them. There we saw a motherly woman who gazed long and mutely at a certain nude. Just as we drew within range she spoke to her com panion, evidently a neighboring housewife who, it seems, was at tempting to black jack a bit of cul ture. "You know," remarked the first lady, "since Eunice went away to school she simply will not wear enough clothes. Just imagine, all last winter she wore a bandeau and step-ins. And during the cold weather, mind you." The mental processes of this good soul are easily enough traced. Another incident had to do with two prosperous gentlemen who were making a dutiful round of the galleries. They looked briefly, showed no interest, and spoke not at all. Finally, something caught an appreciative eye. It was a small landscape, thick with paint. The more positive gentleman examined it minutely. A ray of wonder lit his face. "Well, I'll be hanged, Charley," was his comment, "it's hand made, ain't it?" —THE EDITORS. $tL± "But he's different." "Yes, different from what he ought to be" // we believed the "trained from childhood" advertising coj>y of the cab companies. TUECUICAGOAN n PER/ONAL PORTRAIT/ */\ A /HEN Chicago was a VV prairie"— Sounds a bit mythical, in these days of ultra-modern twentieth-story duplex apartments and "four rooms with the efficiency of five?" When you think of any one remembering so far back as all that, you at once picture some tobacco-spitting, whisky-inhaling or "never-touched- tea - coffee - or - tobacco - in - my - life"-nonagenarian out in the suburbs with nothing to live on but his memo ries and his G. A. R. pension. But there's one man who remem bers when Chicago was, literarily speaking, a prairie — and a rather un couth, overgrown one, at that, with aesthetic tin-cans and garbage-heaps strewn all about. Drop, any day, into the Erie Street office of Poetry, a Magazine of Verse, and you will find him, a little white-whiskered mouse of a man, with probably the merriest and, at the same time, most satiric pair of eyes you ever saw. That "merriest" was well chosen, for Henry Blake Fuller looks not a little like Santa Claus ; and that, indeed, is what he was to Chicago, back in the late and Prince- Albert-coated eighties and our "naughty," if somewhat pro vincial, nineties. An all-day-sucker of European sophistication : that was the gift Mr. Fuller shoved into Chicago's stock ing. He began it with the "Chevalier of Pensieri Vani," his maiden opus, published, if one remembers rightly, in 1888 and reprinted in 1890. And he has been keeping it up ever since. He was the stylist in the wilderness. His literary approach was the salad- fork. It was he who first told Chi cago to pull down her skirts ; she was a big girl now. And do you think Chicago appreciated him? To this day, she doesn't even know there was a Santa Claus. INCIDENTALLY, Mr. Fuller is I the author of the best, if not the only, novel that has come out of the Windy City. If you haven't read The Cliff Dweller Henry Blake Fuller his "On the Stairs," and if you can procure a copy, — all his books are, weirdly, out of print — you have a pleasant evening or two ahead of you. Burton Rascoe, whose first novel has been at last announced, recently stated that he was taking "On the Stairs" for his model, being able to conceive no better one. The present chronicler spoke of this to Mr. Fuller not long ago. The lat- ter's eyes chuckled. "Well," said Mr. Fuller, "he might go further and fare worse." "On the Stairs" is, simply, the fas tidious Iliad of Chicago's perduring conflict: real estate versus culture. In which real estate wins, as usual, while culchaw, as usual, turns up her snippy nose, even on her way to the guillotine. There might be some room for supposing that the vanquished aesthete, not to say dilettante, of "On the Stairs" is a self-portrait. True, Mr. Fuller gives us, as a foil, another delightfully shadowy character who is supposed to be the author's self, but— well, Mr. Fuller knows the tricks of his trade. However this may be, there is in H. B. F. much of the proud but vanquished Hannibal. For after all, one must not forget Carthage. For the past ten years — since "On the Stairs," in 1918— Mr. Fuller has been, for the most part, strangely silent. Only a few scattered book- reviews. The one thing of which he has a horror is the limelight. He dislikes even to have his name — above all, his books — mentioned in print. "I have reached the age when I find it impossible to read my own work any more." And the eyes chortle again. THE shyest of individuals, almost trembling at the idea of his name appearing in type, Mr. Fuller lives strictly to himself. He is a supremely contented, but by no means a lonely, bachelor. Though he has relatives in Chicago, he resides in rooming houses and changes his address frequently, just to make it a trifle more difficult for his friends to keep up with him. And he never goes near a telephone. Nothing could persuade him to do that. Naturally, he has no telephone number. In this respect, he is like Vincent Starrett. He is always present, however, at the gatherings of "little Chicago." You may see him sitting in an aisle seat, napping peacefully, and bobbing awake at the end to tell every one what a fine evening it was. Oh, yes, Mr. Fuller wrote "The Cliff Dwellers," and the club was named after him, and — . But he hasn't set foot in it for thirty years or so. The reason ? Ask Mr. Fuller. Maybe, it was the conversation. —SAMUEL PUTNAM. 12 TI4ECI4ICAGOAN Oh, ftlay that one again. Fifi enjoyed it so." Waiting at the Bridge IF visitors to Chicago really wish * to know why we have that hunted look in our eyes, let them — on their next visit — attempt to keep a one- o'clock appointment on Clinton street with a 12 :45 o'clock freighter chort ling up the Chicago River. Waiting for the bridges to go down may be a thrill for the gentleman- in-a-duster from Oskaloosa, but to the harassed Chicagoan this interval of inertia is worse than spending a lifetime on a desert island with only a copy of the 1903 Congressional Record for diversion. One of the best means to keep one's mind busy while the Lake Steamer "Mary O'Day" shovels its way through the volatile brook with a load of hot-house seaweed for the North Avenue narrows is to engage the prevalent policeman in alterca tion. This is not so hard as it ap pears. Simply make a strenuous at tempt to beat the boat to the bridge, which is ample introduction to the rubber-heeled gentleman in blue. Of course, for the first five minutes, he will turn your ear-drums inside out, but once his fund of profanity is ex hausted, you will have everything going your way except the bridge, and so can fill up the time with a lec ture on the fourth dimension, the Odes of Horace, or even teach him (the cop) how to stutter. One man I know always arranges to count up his debts while waiting for the bridge to go down. The only fault with this is that once you have totalled them, you step finally onto the lowered bridge with the firm idea of tossing yourself into the inky river and so making a lot of creditors mad. CAN you imagine Vice-President Dawes, hurrying to the La Salle station from Evanston, being forced to wire Washington: "Ferry boat 'Jolly Roger' transporting empty cattle car to river mouth makes ar rival for Senate speech impossible. Best regards." There can be no sadder sight than a pedagogue bound for a Northwest ern train to the university for a talk on "Efficiency" being forced to stand and inhale ferry cinders for fifteen minutes. What moral conviction can he inoculate into his address to the students on the subject of "make- each-minute-count" ? Once we tried making faces at the stevedores who leered triumphantly over the bouncing bow at us. But for a citizen who is already prodigiously ugly, this opportunity presents little consolation. I can see little organized, syste matic relief, unless the city govern ment puts in parlor games for us. If anything, conditions are going to be worse. They're pretty nearly through with the new Adams Street bridge. And, when they have put through the idea of a La Salle Street span, there won't be a soul in Chi cago who, at some time or other, has not felt the tingle of knowing he is going to miss a dinner or a train be cause the Eagle Glass-Eye Exchange of Punxatawney, Michigan desires a crate of assorted pupils shipped via lake steamer. —LEIGH METCALFE. The chariest maid is capable enough to penetrate the most moving masculine sales-talk with a simple in terrogation. The question is: Is not the gentleman ingenious enough to devise this nice logic also shrewd enough to be a skillful and passion ate liar? The answer is: Yes. Prospective subscribers are warned to pay no money to solicitors; pay only by check to the order of "The Chicagoan." THE CHICAGOAN 13 Literary Widows Wives of great men all remind us, We can leave our wives some time And, departing, leave behind us Scarce an alimonious dime! CHICAGO is the home of the Literary Widow. Nay, Chicago is the Literary Widow. The late departed? You will find him — at least a good round dozen of him — nicely interred in the oblivion that is Greenwich Village or the Algonquin's grandeur that never was. And while there are no flowers — not even on Decoration Day — the "ex" himself occasionally wafts a none too frag rant posy from the great beyond, in the form of one of those dreadful novels that "tell all," even to the mole on first wifey's double chin or, what's worse, her spiritual hair-lip. Until it has come to the point where the deserted one is more than likely to throw a fainting fit in a book store the moment she catches sight of the cover of a new opus by the lad she used to call her husband. For Chicago, the truth is, may not be the home of the great American novel, but it is of the G. A. N.'s quondam better half. Not only that ; it is the collective heroine of the first novel of the past ten years. This, of course, is none too flat tering, for heroines are not what they used to be. As a matter of fact, there are some folks who think they are no better than they should be. To be an up and going heroine nowadays, you can't get by with a lonesome complex — don't think for a minute that you can. You've got to have a whole bundle of them. And so, as we were saying — WHAT happens is this : Young Alexis Jones comes up from the provinces (which means Keokuk, Kalamazoo or Dubuque) with a glint in his eye and a Best Seller in his wicker suitcase. He loses the glint the first time he strolls down Michi gan Avenue ; the I. C. coal soot sees to that. And he tosses the B. Seller down the drain-pipe after witnessing the amusement it provides the girl across the hall. Then, in the course of his adventures, he meets her. "Her" being a social worker, a piano- teacher, a young lady who writes for the newspapers or, it may be, just a plain home girl. She usually con fesses to being a little older than he and is, in reality, a little older than that. But she knows so much ! About books and life. She has read Dostoievsky and, above all, she has "lived." It may have been in Eau Claire, Wisconsin, but — well, she's willing to live, anyway, and that helps so much. So Alexis and Ruona — that's usu ally the name: Ruona — proceed be fore a justice of the peace. They used to do that in the old days. At present they might do the same thing, but they would keep it dark, since nothing on the near-northside is quite so declasse as matrimony. However that may be, they settle down to a diet of Freud and fried stuffs. They do all sorts of odd things, like jumping out of upstairs windows in the altogether into a snow bank, etc. Oh, they are so naive. But one can't live on naivete. At any rate, Alexis can't. He begins to notice, first, the mole and then the "And then youre married?" "Not currently." 14 TWE CHICAGOAN hair-lip. (The spiritual one we mean, naturally). The first thing we know, Alexis is off to Santa Fe, N. M., Lone Dog, Wyo., or some odd place like that. THE next event on the calendar is the appearance of the G. A. N., first installment. It is very revela tory. It is nothing if not revelatory. That little incident of the snow bank is there, and the double chin is there, while the spiritual hair-lip lurks in the offing, if a hair-lip may be said to lurk. This, in literary circles— our set, you know — is equivalent to the filing of a praecipe. The rest of the proceedings usually take place very quietly, and the first thing the public knows, there is a new addi tion to the local widows' colony. For there is a colony. They go in swarms and have teas and all that sort of thing, devoted to the process of bearing up bravely. For they are fine gals, these first heroines. They never mention hubby-that-was. Don't want any of his laurels. They're out on their own now. Meanwhile, — Who said Chicago wasn't the hub of our national letters? In any event, it's the feminine spoke. —MARTIN ST. JOHN. We would like to know: IF the stone caskets at the south end of the outer drive are meant for the eventual interment of the com missioners responsible for them. If so, will they draw lots to see who gets the big ones? The nationality and habits of these strange women with bright brown faces, little black hats and scarlet lips seen only on Michigan Avenue. Are they working girls? Where? If the Gothic niches at the top of the Oriental Theatre building are for the purpose of containing statues of these two public benefactors. And how could you get a statue up there ? There are too many niches, so would they alternate with saints — Mr. Balaban, St. Mark, Mr. Katz, St. John? — VV. EVERETT. <lWL_ 'But Bennie — you're too old to make your promises so vague.'* j* MU/ICAL NOTEf The Town Tak es on a New An ir- THE musical season retains much of its robustness. Within the last fortnight there have been Reuter and Gordon, Bauer and Gabrilowitsch, a few symphony concerts, and the New York String Quartet, besides a sprinkling of less notable recitalists. Jacques Gordon is to my mind one of the most perfect of chamber musi cians. He played with Reuter in Kimball Hall a new Sonata of David Stanley Smith, a musical bull in the china shop at Yale or Princeton or someplace, the luscious Brahm's Mei- stersinger Sonata and, with young Mr. Brinkman at the piano, a group of short pieces including a rather mawkish Elegie of his own and an atmospheric Nocturne of Zymanow- ski. Reuter's support in the two so natas, the meat and drink of the program, was warmly sympathetic ; but in a group of piano solos he re vealed a lack of repose, so requisite to the playing of the Brahms Intermezzi, and a disconcertingly brittle tone quality. These two gentlemen appear again, same locale, on April 5 in a splendid program comprising musics of Goosens, Cesar Franck and a newly published violin suite by the very, very talented Stella Roberts of Oak Park. Ring the date on your calendar. Bauer and Gabrilowitsch, hardy perennials of the concert platform, TWECI4ICAG0AN 15 appeared Sunday, March 27 at the Studebaker and rattled gaily through a polite two-piano program of the lavender and old lace variety, Bach, Beethoven, Schumann, and a timid excursion into the disturbing har monic levities of Saint-Saens and Arensky. Gabrilowitsch, head en cased firmly inside that famous col lar, played in a ripely sedate manner, much as he played fifteen years ago in Gray's armory in Cleveland when I stood on a chair to see him. And Bauer, a bit more portly now, with quite the air of the maestro, leaned back and stroked the keys lovingly and well. The prevailing mood was that of a family reunion. The same afternoon the New York String Quartet had their say under the handsome proscenium of the Goodman Theatre. That beautiful hall was crowded with a raptly atten tive audience. What a place to hear music ! And it was good music. I missed the Haydn, but heard three move ments of the Ravel Quartet and shorter pieces by Frank Bridge, Just As I Am! Wanderersnachtlied Just as I am without one plea, Save that I ne'er may thirsty be And that to Europe I may flee, (tremolo alcoholoso) O Beer and Wine, I come, I come. Just as I am and waiting not To swill down one big foaming pot And die a blessed drunken sot, (maestoso whiskioso) O Beer and Wine, I come, I come. Just as I am without one plea, Save that I never more may see That blank-blank statue of liberty, (furiosissimo) O Beer and Wine, I come, I come. Goosens and Grainger. The organi zation itself was a foursome of experts which met the demands, par ticularly of the subtle Ravel, with precision and sympathy. The town of late becomes less chilly to chamber musicians and much of the credit must go to Jacques Gordon and the sponsors of the great Beethoven con cert cycle at the Simpson Theatre in the Field Museum. NOT having had the opportunity to hear The King's Henchman in performance, I chased through the score on the old Steinway last week end. The only conclusion can be that Miss Millay and Mr. Taylor must be eminently satisfied with each other. He has constructed a brawny, sturdy and withal, charming score, deriving, so far as I can make out, from Wag ner, from much excursion into the peculiar modal realms of English folk-music, and in slight but per ceptible degree from Fritz Delius. These derivations in no way prevent the music from enjoying its own uniqueness. Mr. Taylor has poured some good new wines into dustily familiar bottles. The score flows —PIERRE DE LA LUNE. much as any modern music drama and it is difficult to isolate purple passages. Much of the second act consists (as in Tristan) of a love scene, carried along for the most part on a high level of musical excellence, between the henchman of the king, made faithless by love, and the rare dame to whom he is sent as a Saxon John Alden. Somewhere too is a vivid marching song, salted and pep pered with a brisk underlying coun terpoint and the archaism of the lowered seventh. For a couple of sopranos from Keokuk, a portfolio of Dove's post ers, six scores from a certain moss- grown repertoire, and a hundred shares of Commonwealth Edison, we might be able to hear The King's Henchman next winter from a plush chair on Congress Street. — RODERT POLLAK. The literary critic who incon tinently damns every work presented for his verdict might be unpopular, but he has a smaller percentage of error against him than any member of the learned professions on this planet. 16 TI4ECWICAG0AN Lost Art TO be really rude is, perhaps, one of the marks of genius. I do not mean the mere glare of the unso phisticated who punctuate their banal "you're another" with a push. No. The truly great and rude bear ever sharp pointed appraisals of their fel low men in sheaths, as it were, at their tongue tips. And, at the apt moment, the rudeness is flung wide and wholesomely. One must always remember the comeback of that obese "dixonary" maker, Samuel Johnson, whose sole comment on tea repudiated was a grunted "A fool would have burned his mouth." Is it not true of Whistler that his sharp and cruel wit is known where his fragrant artistic work has never penetrated? To a delicate art he al lied one of the bluntest bludgeons and one of the sharpest rapiers that ever came from a verbal arsenal. And how we need this great tra dition now. Today our rudeness is cumbersome and unlettered. Rude ness needs a hefty conscience which is always sure it is right, a sizable person (although Whistler put it over with an eyeglass and a some what shoddy foppery), and above all it needs serenity. Today the word "rude" lingers in dictionaries, but we have changed its true meaning by our daily living. We are insolvent where once we were definitely and truly impudent. With the passing of Elizabethan tankards and Gargantuan breakfasts has slowly come the passing of the art of rudeness. The royal demi-vierge herself, good old Elizabeth, was able to knock off a damning phrase with the celerity with which her headsman decapitated rivals. BUT may not this gift, given the original impulse, be cultivated, or is it such a tender bloom that it withers under the fierce light of "pleased to mee'cha" and such? Alas ! A nation that reduces and de pends for its amusements on radio, operations, movies and high blood pressure is too surfeited with banal ities to resist. A hard lot, indeed, for the sturdy successors of rare Ben Johnson and all the verbal filibusters from Rabelais to France. There is but one bright note, and this is to recall the fact that, in talk ing of what the hoi polloi have never heard, one may still be greatly and immensely rude. In coining inchoate but pregnant phrases one may cause a faint wonderment called curiosity or at least a pallid annoyance that there are still on this world a few souls who know that the veil of our civilization is wearing so thin that, given sufficient time, we shall again get at loggerheads in the good old fashion, and, throwing aside the lip sticks and the diet sheets, go for each other's throats like the rude old An glo Saxons we are at bottom. —LILLIAN MACDONALD. "Doesn t this jazz bring out all the savage in one?" TMECWICAGOAN 17 "Isn't this royal or something silly like that." ? ? ? Singing Praises Do Let Us Save the King IN mournful intervals, when I feel the need of entertainment, I study national anthems. National anthems always cheer me. For instance, there is the Prussian hymn, a modestly unassertive lyric as such things go. "I am a Prussian, will a Prussian be" concludes the singer in a rousing basso. Well, it states the case. A bit pessimistically it may be, but honestly enough. It is not my favorite. The fiery Gaul clamors different ly : "March on ! March on ! To vic tory or death." There are points to this one. True it is overdrawn; it is rhetorical. And it suggests an un pleasant alternative, so that no sales manager would have it for a rallying whoop. It is silent on war aims, national virtues, and constructive criticism generally — under the cir cumstances, perhaps, just as well. Nevertheless I shall pass it by. The old Russian air was doleful indeed. It was ample grounds for any revolution. I once heard a Japanese anthem which sounded suspiciously like a casus belli. "The Star Spangled Banner" is not, strictly speaking, our national air. Perhaps that, too, is just as well. It was originally, so they say, a drinking song. If so, how it has changed. Like the French air it is rhetorical and more an occasional piece than an anthem should be. As a piece of music it does not claim my vote. BUT there is, thank Heaven, "God Save the King." Here is an anthem for the doldrums. Here is an anthem, so to speak, in its shirt sleeves. A musician might conceiv ably toss off such an air after pay ing his income tax or spending the night in jail on conjecture. There is a barbed thrust of satire to the last sweet note. And after the impres sive, if somewhat dunderheaded, opening bars, the succeeding melody chases its tail like a puppy through the concluding runs. And, like a puppy, it suddenly sits down just where it started. But if the music is open to a sus picion of satire, the words stand con victed on a most casual reading. Take the first verse. Send him victorious, Happy and glorious, Long to reign over us God save the king. Considering that the king does not rule, that he does not make, revise, or defend a single law so far as we know, the stanza fits the derisive music perfectly. It is also interest ing to remember that the last king who reigned over his people in Eng land made a startling spectacle on the block. Still, the jolly ditty goes on. The second verse is immense : Oh Lord, our God arise, Scatter his enemies, (de lightful rhyme) And make them fall ; Confound all politics; Frustrate their knavish tricks ; On him our hopes we fix, God save us all. Where> in all patriotic music, does a more pious dread manifest itself than in the last priceless* line? And where is there a more back-handed compliment? On him our hopes we fix, God save us all. "God Save the King" goes a long way toward making government bearable, even cheerful to contem plate. On bad days I know nothing comparable to it, or at best only the ancient and boyish insect parody of "The Battle Hymn of the Republic." — F. COLLINS. 18 TI4ECI4ICAG0AN <7&e ARTGALLEMEJ The Strange Case of Mr. Butler THE Associated Press, a few weeks ago, carried an item to the effect that Mr. Edward Burgess But ler, Chicago millionaire and painter de luxe (incidentally, a pillar of the Art Institute), had entered a canvas at a then current showing of local artists under the plebeian name of Karl Ruble and had not only carried off a four hundred dollar prize, but had sold the picture to another un suspecting Gold-Coaster. It was a good yarn. The A. P. dilated at some length upon the novelty of the incident. Did it not prove that a poor boy — rather, a poor million aire — had a chance after all? The Institute, naturally, was not averse to the story's leaking out. Did it not prove that those much maligned in dividuals, the picture-jurors, were, after all, replete with integrity? Who said that juries didn't know their stuff? They couldn't help it if a contemporary millionaire happened to be a near-old-master, could they? And what chance would Mr. B. have had under his own name, since he himself is in the habit of awarding prizes? In short, those No-Juryites didn't know what they were talking about. Now, we, personally, have always been a confirmed believer in the di vinely inspired stupidity of all juries; and so, all this came as a great shock to us. We at once called up Mr. Weisenborn and suggested the alter native of the lake or a bottle of syn thetic gin. At that moment, the mail man arrived, bringing with him the following from a nameless corre spondent : This is the second time in seven- "I should say not — the last man I kissed told mother." teen years that a "struggling, young, unknown" artist got by a jury in the Art Institute. First, in 1910, "Ed ward Burgess" (Edward Burgess Butler), now in 1927, Karl Ruble (Edward B. Butler). No wonder it made the first page in all the papers; but next time (1944) we'll all be pre pared, and he can't surprise us. But, seriously, something ought to be done about this. Might almost as well turn the Institute over to the "No-Jury" movement, when they get so careless about picking juries. BY the time this number of the Chicagoan appears upon the stands, the big Neoarlimusc Exhibi tion of Nudes will be in progress at 1501 north LaSalle Street rear, in case it hasn't been stopped by the police. The best artists in town are there, a number of them with two or three shocking canvases apiece— Ramon Shiva, Flora Schofield, etc., and a couple of newcomers that look like knockouts. As for ourselves, there have been times when we were inclined to agree with the late futur ists in their manifesto, when they in sist that all painting of nudes shall cease for at least ten years. Modern art, we are told, means emotion, but emotion doesn't necessarily mean the nude. Not to one who takes them without a chaser. Nevertheless, this ought to be a wonderful show — if our police- woman doesn't hear about it. The Arts Club is showing the drawings and watercolors of Con- stantin Guys. These are worth spending a day with. Then spend a day reading what Baudelaire has to say about Guys ("he Peintre de la vie moderne") in L'Art romantique, and come back and spend another day with the originals. There is also a showing of paintings by Albert Bloch. The Messrs. Quest and Johnson of the Chester Johnson Galleries, fa mous and intrepid entrepreneurs of Survage and other Gallic modernists, are off soon on. the Isle de France for another summer's foraging. —MR. RABELAIS. TI4E04ICAGQAN 19 Another Age TO-DAY Chicago is a rich and haughty city, a trifle contempt uous, sometimes, of its origin as a mosquito-plagued shanty town near a piddling river, and situated on a forlorn corner of one of the Great Lakes. The lake itself is changing. It is decked out with improvements, cribs, lights, and a municipal pier. Its shore line has been pushed back to make room for marble, steel and the docile greenery of city parks. The river has suffered even greater indignity. Its very course has been summarily reversed ; its once free windings are sullen and trammeled under acrobatic bridges. The Link Bridge rises above it, sudden and astounding as a cata clysm of nature. Wacker Drive, the most highly sublimated of trails, is glittering and contemptu ous of the stream which made it possible. But not quite is the river over awed at Chicago's new grandeur. The river's creatures go their way unimpressed, secure in their being of a stout-hearted lineage. Watch some day the progress of a tug on its way to the lake. The small bridges rise reluctantly when the boat claims its meed. The tug comes unhurriedly down the current, puffing, along with the side- wise gait of a bull terrier. The boulevard bridge stiffens to atten tion, imposing as a grenadier in a bearskin shako. The tug salutes with a bored whistle, never glanc ing up. The pagentry is complete. The name of our favorite tug is the Daniel A. Casey, a downright, honest, unassuming name, a name reminiscent of the full dinner pail, a day's work for a day's pay, a name savoring of a strenuous age, an unpatrician age, and an age for ever unabashed. —FRANCIS C. COUGHLIN. TJie most damning argument against the intelligence of women is the number of them who think their husbands are clever fellows. / should buy a talking machine when yoj, re my wife. Expenses A lean and rural Tennesseean moved his family to Depue, Illinois. Dcpue is no metropolis, but it has a funny name, and the newcomer was satisfied with its size. A medicine show vending high- class entertainment, pain killers, snake oil, and Indian remedies an nounced its first night's stand. The theatrical season opened with a bang. A young man questioned the newcomer : "Seen the show?" "No, I hain't, mister." . "Good show, I hear." "Yeh, sure is. I been workin' nights, an — " "Too bad." "Yeh. My mother, she went though." "That's fine. Did she like it?" "Yeh." And then with a burst of confidence, "I give her a dime to go see the thing. And do you know what ?' "What ?" "Why, durn her, now she wants a dime every night." —FRANK C. Three times I have had pointed out to me a specimen gentleman : The first two were too stupid to be any thing else; the third, after seven rickeys, confessed to be an impostor. The ordinary man insists that four and four are eight ; the philosopher admits that four and four may be eight ; the net mental difference is the thing known as education. 20 THE CHICAGOAN A Chicago Version RED," said Mrs. Hood, "Grand ma's sick." "Is her life insurance paid up?" Red Riding Hood inquired as she popped her gum sympathetically a couple of times. "I doubt it," Mrs. Hood responded peevishly. "Ma's always been so careless about everything. I told her to be careful of what she drank these days." "Got sick on hootch again, did she ? Well, when a woman's around eighty I guess she can't expect to be a good judge of liquor . . . and grand ma will go to all those cheap dives out on the south side." Mrs. Hood, who was getting ali mony from three ex-husbands, was of what might be called a more or less practical trend of mind. "Since we can't tell about the life insurance, one of us had better go out there and take her some cigarettes and some stuff to eat, and try to get her over this spell. We can take care of the insurance later. You're not doing anything, Red, why can't you go ?" "Me go way out to Wilson Ave nue? I'm reading a grand story in this True Confessions. Besides she's your mother." "I got an appointment to have my face lifted. You can read the story going out on the 'L.' " Red was not one to give up with out a struggle. "It hurts my eyes to read on the 'L.' " "My Gawd ! As little as I ask you to do . . . if I'd done right I'd of made you take a beauty culture course and work for a living. When I was your age — " "I'll go, ma." RED RIDING HOOD put on her new hat which, if it wasn't actu ally scarlet, was at least a very deep shade of rose. First she went down Michigan Avenue to that rather en larged and distorted delicatessen which announces constantly that its prices are never high and bought two liver sausage sandwiches and a can of sardines to take to her grand mother. She took the "L" at Madison and Wabash. Scarcely had she seated herself when the train stopped at Randolph and Wabash and Mr. Sam Wolff got on and sat down beside her. Mr. Wolff looked at her and suddenly a beam of recognition spread over his face. "Why, aren't "Now this one, Joe, has some stuff to it." you the little girl I danced with Thursday night at Rainbo Gardens ?" Red glanced at Mr. Wolff's dia mond ring. "Sure I am." They both knew it was two other people, but they were both too polite, or something, to say so. Long before they reached Wilson Avenue, Red had broken down and confessed all to Mr. Wolff — where she was going and why. Mr. Wolff did not seem much surprised. But he thought a girl with as many troubles as Red had needed friends and, since the Salvation Army was ap parently nowhere handy, they de cided that Mr. Wolff had better go to Red's grandmother's apartment with her. HEN they got there grand ma was gone ! Well, no use to cry over spilled milk, Red Riding Hood thought. After she had sought consolation in some goodies from grandma's pantry shelves, she and Mr. Wolff decided to play like he was grandma and Red had come to see him. "Why, grandma, how many ears you have! Two on each side!" she exclaimed. "The better—" Just then a tall man walked into the room. "The place is pinched," he announced. "Why, Mr. Cutter," Mr. Wolff greeted him. "How's tricks? Miss Hood, this is Mr. Wood Cutter, one of my best friends and a prohibition officer." All this time Mr. Wolff was counting off some money from the roll of bills he took from his pocket. "Well I must be going," he said, as he handed the money to Wood Cut ter. As soon as he had gone Mr. Cutter looked at Red Riding Hood. Sud denly he beamed. "You're the little girl I danced with out at Rainbo Gardens last Thursday night, ain't you?" Red thought of the present which Mr. Wolff had just given Wood Cut ter. "Sure I am," she said, "sure, and wasn't it a swell dance?" —FANNY HILL. TMECI4ICAG0AN 21 THEATRE SWEET LADY, according to re ports, is casting about for a new home. Three-year-old Sunny, with Marilyn Miller, is listed to enter the Illinois on Monday, April 4. Frank Doane and Clifton Webb are appear ing with Miss Miller. The Goodman Memorial is chang ing its policy as well as its bill. The Pigeon is the new offering, which will be given beginning Monday, April 11, and, so it would seem, con tinuing nightly throughout the week with the exception of Sunday. The Vagabond King will finally depart from the Great Northern. It will be replaced Sunday, April 17 by The Nightingale in which Eleanor Painter appears in the title role. This is the opera which makes a musical comedy heroine of Jenny Lind, you remember. Stanley Lupino, a British comedian, is in the cast. The same week will find Judy at the Studebaker with Queenie Smith and Charles Purcell. It has been reported that Al Jolson will return with Big Boy to the Apollo. What Every Woman Knows UNLESS one goes through the motions of the Barrie cult, there is little new to mention in con nection with Miss Hayes' new offer ing at the 4 Cohans. It is a good show, yes, and it is well acted. Inci dentally, it is interesting to remember that Miss Hayes is one actress who never makes use of the age-weary alibi — "I can't get a part to suit." On the contrary, she seems to find many parts that suit her. She is a very facile actress with an aptitude for fitting roles, if we can judge from her performances in the past few years. I have always regretted that I did not see her in Shaw's Cleopatra. Kenneth McKenna bowls rolling Scotch r's all over the stage, but the girls like him no end. The rest of the cast apparently slipped up on the braw Scotch accent ; one man in par ticular substituting a fine German brogue at moments of note. But in the main the delicate atmosphere of the Barrie opus was admirably sus tained in all its illusion. —MARIE ARMSTRONG HECHT. Miss Helen Hayes demonstrating to Kenneth McKenna What Every Woman Knows. 22 The Screen OLD IRONSIDES is the most substantial picture made avail able to Chicagoans this season. It is American history in the colossal miniature achieved only by James Cruze and by him in only one other instance, The Covered Wagon. It is motion picture history as well, and of course it is also a good story and a great spectacle. I reflected, before the picture started, that the Auditorium was a pretty big house for a picture. At intermission the far-flung walls of that place had been drawn in and I wondered if the Coliseum should not have been leased instead. At the end I knew Soldiers' Field for the trivial enclosure it is. Grant Park might be an adequate place for displaying Old Ironsides if a screen were propped against the Tribune Tower with its base grounded upon the bridge and the crib due east. Lacking these exhibition facilities, the management has equipped the Auditorium projectors with lenses which multiply by four the standard screen dimensions, thereby producing a picture which completely fills the proscenium opening. That the pro duction renders inconspicuous a prac tically stereoscopic effect thus cre ated is perhaps the most accurate measure of its power. Innumerable otherwise important contributory factors may be dismissed. No less epochal in its way, "Casey at the Bat" is to be seen at the Roosevelt — but not too soon after dinner lest diaphragmatic oscillations induced by the once villainous Wal lace Beery as Casey impair digestive function. It's about a baseball scan dal dated in the gay nineties and — save to say that in it Beery is funnier than Chaplin or Lloyd whether or not because of past villainies — the ethics governing suppression of specific in formation pertaining to comedies are observed. Tyr ORRIS GEST is to produce a * * motion picture — financed by Joseph Schenck — but it will not be The Miracle. That would be. ? People are of two kinds — those who have read Hawthorne's The TWE CHICAGOAN Scarlet Letter and the rest of us. The first group says Victor Sea- strom's picture of like title doesn't follow the book and isn't good. The rest of us say it's among the best pictures ever made. We are right, of course, because there are so many more of us. Seastrom knew that. ? The Sorrows of Satan — review of which was promised in the preceding issue — is a devilishly sad affair. ? There are, approximately, 300 pic ture theatres in Chicago. They av erage, roughly, 1,000 seats and 3 per formances daily. If there are 3,000,- 000 Chicagoans, roughly or other wise, this leaves almost four full days of each week to be devoted to such other inconsequential pursuits as they may select. ? Some of them ride the surface lines to the theatres. ? Gainsborough's The Blue Boy is exquisitely treated in a short natural color subject running in relief to the comic Casey at the Roosevelt. Sit about mid-way down the theatre to see it best. It's perfect contrast to Beery's humor and almost perfect in dependently. ? Children of Divorce, new at Mc- Vickers, is not a story of Hollywood. ? It is a good idea to go to the Play house and see Dimitri Buchowetski's screen report of the Freiberg Passion Play. It is what you expect it to be, of course, plus a scenic. Go, if possible, on a night when weather permits you to walk from the Play house over into Grant Park and take a long look eastward and upward. Maybe you'll see something. ? The Red Mill is Marion Davies in slapstick enactment of some 250 cap- tional jokes that Life didn't buy be cause Judge had used them. ? Orchids and Ermine has at least as many almost-new wheezes, but no body cares because Colleen Moore's in it. ? When better theatres are built Bal- aban & Katz will gild them. — w. R. WEAVER. w>iwrm.\*>Wim£iyw^ THE CHICAGOAN 23 Book/- Intimate Acrobatics THIS new novel needs no re viewer's subtitle. It is very new. Not quite out, in fact, as I write, al though it may be by the time you read this. It is by a new author, Lord Stites — or, at any rate, by an author trying to get a new start. And it is written in a new manner — that is, it will seem new until someone translates into English Joseph Del- teil's Cholera. Although at the same time one rather suspects that the au thor, Lord Stites, may, like the clergyman who married Llewellyn and Anastazia, take occasion now and again to retire to his study, after intervals of more serious duty, to re read Peter Whiffle. For Chicagoans it will make ex tremely civic reading. To be sure most of the action takes place in Paris and New York, but nonethe less most of the characters hail from The Opera Club may be obtained, with or without cuisine service, on afternoons or evenings, for Private Dances, Teas and Banquets, with the exception of Wednesday and Saturday Nights. By reason of its ten years of service to many of Chi' cago's Smartest Social Func tions the Opera Club is the accepted place for affairs necessitating excellence of service and appointments. 18 West Walton Place Tel. Superior 6907 our town originally or intermediate ly. Or perhaps from Winnetka. It was in Chicago that Anastazia's father first formed his nautical tastes, and it was there that Justin made his fortune in toothpicks. That fortune which was nearly shocked into insignificance in 1922 when Emily Post published her Outline of Etiquette, but revived with the adop tion of toothpicks as joiners for drug store club sandwiches. And it was from Winnetka that Victor was drawing his allowance at the moment when his agent sold the first novel for $20,000. No, not to a publisher. To a movie producer who was pay ing for permission to make a few slight changes in it, the slightest be ing Europe for its background in stead of America, and the heroine murdering her mother instead of marrying the hero. AT one point, however, the book will lack realism for Chicagoans. Llewellyn is named Smith instead of Jones. Temporarily the story gives prom ise of being not so much acrobatics, even intimate ones, as a series of still lifes. Llewellyn and Anastazia sit in the garden. Her hat with its morn ing glories suggests a portable trellis in full bloom. "The shade it cast was deep and sub-aqueously green, and Anastazia's eyes were like the stern light of a small pleasure craft afloat therein. A little below these aquatic phenomena her lips were dimly visible, prettily curved beneath their thin shift of magenta lipstick. Other features went unnoticed. Only eyes, lips and a trellis hat that waved its several flowers circularly, like gestures to go with a conversation in French." The jug and glasses and their shadows share this still life acrobatic quality, and Anastazia's mother in energetic moments enhances it by setting everything straight from the cushions to Llewellyn's tie, stopping short only at the goldfish. From breakfast to luncheon and from luncheon to tea, Llewellyn pro poses to Anastazia, offering every thing from passion to check-books. And she refuses, even after the stars »»»++»»+»»+4»»»»+»»+4-+4»++ The ! Samovar Cafe A CAFE OF CONTI NENTAL EUROPE ON MICHIGAN AVE NUE — WHERE SAVORY FOOD, DEFERENTIAL SERVICE AND CHARM ING DECORATION MAKE LUNCHEON, DINNER AND AFTER THEATRE SUPPER A FUNCTION RATHER THAN A MERE MATTER OF ROUTINE. Dancing-Review Presenta tions from 7 to closing No cover charge during dinner For reservations phone Harrison 6630 The Samovar Cafe ADJOINING THE BLACKSTONE 624 South Michigan Boulevard 24 TWECI4ICAC0AN Where Fine Cigars Are Smoked Tom Palmer Predominates Wengler & Mandell, Inc. Chicago - Tampa come out and reflect the moonlight from her silver wig. All because Llewellyn is too handsome. The next morning both start for Paris — by the seven and ten o'clock respectively. Paris yields its share of expensive, well-posed and Parisian adventures, from the Ritz to Rumpel- meyer's and from the Select Club op posite the Dome to Chez ma Belle Soeur. Anastazia marries Justin. It is stimulating to dress for a man with red hair when his favorite color hap pens also to be red. She marries him while weeping over her hopeless love for Llewellyn. Later on, in New York, Justin in an old fashioned moment reminds Llewellyn that Anastazia, being mar ried, is lost to him. "Justin was a little hurt at Llewel lyn's frank laughter." The ending is, however, happy and even more old-fashioned than Jus tin's remark. Intimate Acrobatics, by Lord Stites, is published by Robert M. Mc- Bride and Company. —SUSAN WILBUR. J* A Bull Third Act I yawn, my dear. This farce is over- long; It is not meet Love should go endless as a winding song, Inanely sweet The miming, dear, has pleased me for a while As miming goes; I have applauded gladly every smile, Your every pose But still your dramas weary; each and all You seem to write Have seen me dimly at the curtain call And yours the light And I have played most faithfully your line As lover pale — Enough, my dear, We start a skit of mine: "The Conquering Male!" — GONFAL, The Resort of Fashion and the Epicure 18 W. Walton Place Opera Club Building What if she has a book? Give her another! SPEAKING OF GIFTS Pape illustrations Fine bindings The new novels The most important recent plays You just know she reads them Telephone Superior 2601 "Books for the Sophisticate" Open Until Midnight * BOREAS BOOKSTO R E 109 EAST CHICAGO AVE. 999 Lake Shore Drive A permanent home in one of the finest steel frame, fireproof buildings on the Gold Coast at a cost of about one-half of the present rental value is assured the far-sighted individual who co-operates in purchasing this won derful ten-story building on the 100% co-operative plan. Only two of the apartments are available for purchase — one for immedi ate occupancy and one subject to a lease which expires September 30th, 1927. The location is the most desirable site in Chicago, being at the outer bend of Lake Shore Drive and commanding a beautiful view of the lake and shore line, which will be a constant pleasure to you and will provoke the admiration of all your friends. The value of this location is bound to increase from year to year. Under the 100% co-operative plan, you are afforded an opportunity to share in this unearned increment as well as experience the monthly saving over what you would pay as rent for a similar apartment As only two apartments arc for sale, prompt action is advised. H.H. DECKER 6-COMPANY 714 Wrigley Building Superior 5178 The New Orthophonic Victrola Electrola and Radiola Combinations Exclusively STEGER & SONS Piano Manufacturing Company STEGER Building Northwest Corner Wabash and Jackson