One night, long ago, merely for madness I stripped myself like a dancing girl; I draped myself with rose-hued silks And set a crimson feather in my hair. There were twists of gold lace about my arms And a girdle of gold about my waist. I danced before the mirror till I dropped! (Outside I could hear the rain falling And the wind crept in beneath my door Along my worn carpet.) I folded my finery And prayed as if kneeling beside my mother. Whether there was listening I cannot say. There was praying! There was praying! Never again shall I dance before the mirror Bedizened like a dancing girl--never, my mother! I have a low voice and quiet movements, And early and late I study to please. As long as I live I shall be adorning other women, I shall be decking them for their lovers And sending them upon women's adventures. But none of them shall see behind this curtain Where I have my little home, where I weep When I please, and beat upon the table with my fists. "NUR WER DIE SEHNSUCHT KENNT" MARGARET C. ANDERSON In one of Chicago's big department stores of the cheaper type you may--provided you're something of a poet--walk straight into the heart of a musical adventure. It is that amazing, resentful, and very satisfying adventure of discovering genius at work, under the by no means unique condition of being unrecognized. You go to one of the upper floors where the big lunch-room is. You find a table near a platform in the center, on which sit four musicians--a pianist, a 'cellist, a clarinet_ist_ (if there is such a thing), and a second violinist. You expect the usual clamor.... Suddenly you notice a fifth figure who has been sitting quietly in the background. She comes forward with a violin in her hand, and stands ready to play. There is something still about her--that quality of stillness which is invariably the first thing you notice in any dynamic. She seems not scornful of her surroundings, but quite indifferent to them; not arrogant, but sure of power; not timid, and yet incredibly soft and shy and serious. She is plainly foreign; she is German, looks French, and plays like a Viennese. Or, to be exact, she merges the German "heaviness" with the Viennese gay-sadness, and the result is a sensuousness that is both deep and clear, with the haunting wail that distinguishes all the music which comes from Vienna. She looks almost like a little girl; but you would notice her any place because of that stillness and the haunting appeal that always attaches to a certain type of eyes and mouth--the kind which seem to say: "I will make music for you; I will take you to a new world. I will do it because I can dream intensely."